Shine
by klemonademouth
Summary: A philosopher once asked, "are we human because we gaze at the stars? Or do we gaze at them because we are human?" Pointless, really. Do the stars gaze back-ah, now that's a question. Stardust crossover. Rated M for mature scenes in later chapters.
1. Prologue

**Good merciful God, I know I've been promising this "thing I've been working on" **_**forever**_**. Well. Here it **_**finally**_** is... Stardust!Klaine.**

**Um. I guess the only further comment I have is that this chapter involves a certain "suspension of disbelief" (give me a fucking break, okay, it's a fantasy cross-over fic, what do you want from me). I understand that the thought of Blaine as their certain people's son, **_**period**_**, is kind of fucking weird.**

**But it all makes sense in the end.**

**So, without further ado-Stardust!Klaine. And if you haven't seen the movie, go see it. It's always been one of my favourites and as further incentive, it's one of Chris' favourites too.**

**Prologue**

A philosopher once asked, "are we human because we gaze at the stars? Or do we gaze at them because we are human?"

Pointless, really. Do the stars gaze back- now _that's_ a question.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Our story really begins one hundred and fifty years ago at the Royal Academy of science in London, England, where a letter arrived containing a very strange enquiry. It had come from a country girl, and the scientist who read it thought it might be a practical joke of some kind. But he duly wrote a reply, explaining that the query was nonsense, and posted it to the girl, who lived in a village called "Wall". So named, the girl had said, for the wall that ran alongside it. A wall that, according to local folklore, hid an extraordinary secret.

The sky was clear and dark. The weather was mild. Tina had searched for at least two miles on either side of the opening in the wall, and had come to the resigned conclusion that this really was absolutely the only opening _in_ the wall.

"I'm in charge with guarding the portal to another world and you want me to just _let_ you through?" the gatekeeper slurred, swaying a little dangerously.

Tina reached out a hand to steady her. "Yes," she said, withdrawing once it appeared that the guard no longer required Tina's help. "Because, let's be honest—it's a field." She put her arm around the guard, turning her to gesture out at the empty field on the other side of the wall. "Look. Do you see another world out there? No. You see a field. Do you see anything... non-human? No. And you know why? _Because it's a field!_" she threw her hands up a little impatiently.

"Thirty years," the guard hiccuped. "Thirty years I've guarded this wall twenty-four hours a day, just me and my gin and a song in my heart. One more word and I'll have to report you. Rules are rules. Sorry, love."

Tina's lips twisted together. "Well, that sounds pretty final then. I- I guess I'll go home."

"Night, Tina," the guard said sleepily, beginning to pace away from the gap in the wall once more. "Give my best to your parents."

Tina turned her back and began to walk slowly up the grassy incline, glancing over her shoulder at the wall. As soon as the guard was far enough away from the opening, she turned and bolted through the gap in the wall.

She could hear the gatekeeper hollering after her, but she refused to stop or look back.

It wasn't even a _portal_ or a _door_, really. It was just a crumbled collapse in an old stone wall that this drunken, washed-up woman guarded twenty-four hours a day.

There was a village not far from the wall. Tina could hear laughter and music and the clink of glasses being put together in toast—clearly a far more lively town than her own. But not another world.

The village she found herself in _was_ of another world.

It was strange—wonderful. The stalls were colorful, filled with oranges and reds and yellows and blues and greens. A canary the size of an owl in an iron bird cage. A jar of eyeballs that all turned to look at her as she stooped closer to examine them. A sheaf of parchment, fluttering unassisted in the air, whirling around like a mini paper tornado. A group of what looked like boys in red and blue suits that sounded like musical instruments when they sang.

A young man around her age sitting on the steps to a strange-looking yellow caravan, a slim silver chain wound around his ankle, attached to a hook on the door.

He smiled when Tina met his eyes.

"Unless you have enough money in your purse for him—and judging by the state of your _hair_, I'd say you don't—I'd suggest you keep moving, sister," said a rather frightening voice.

A scary-looking woman she'd missed the first time she'd looked was standing off to the boy's left, scowling, her fists on her hips. "I don't deal with time-wasters. Or half-breeds, and I think you're both. Was one of your parents some sort of primate? How do you explain your hair?"

"No-" Tina stammered, feeling her cheeks flush. She looked down at the table quickly. "I was—uh—looking at the flowers."

They were pretty, preserved in glass that would keep them fresh for eternity.

The woman snorted, tossing her head. "Take care of her. And I don't mean in that way, you perverted little Asian." She strode away towards the pub, shoving people out of the way as she went.

The boy stepped up to the table with the fluidity of a dancer, causing Tina to blush again and look at her feet. "See something you like?"

"Definitely," Tina answered without thinking, and flushed even more darkly when his smile grew.

"W-what I mean is," she stammered, "that- that one's nice." She pointed to a bluebell. "How much is it?"

"It might be the color of your hair," he said, somewhat coyly. "Or it might be all of your memories before you were three. I can check if you want."

She stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Anyway, you don't want that one," he said, picking up a small glass flower. "Take this one. Snowdrop. It'll bring you luck."

"Well, how much is that one?" she asked hesitantly. She didn't have much money.

"This one? Costs a kiss," he said, tapping his cheek.

She could feel the corners of her lips turn up as she leaned to press them against his cheek; at the last moment, he turned his head, and their lips met.

The kiss was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. Duncan had _never_ kissed her that way- he always acted as if she was too fragile, as if he was afraid she'd break.

He looked dazed for a moment when they pulled apart, and then his forehead crinkled in an expression of worry. "Ditchwater Sue would kill me for that."

"Should we go somewhere more private, then?" she asked, scarcely believing what she was saying. But she wanted _more_, more of his kisses, more touches, more _everything_. Everything she'd never get from Duncan.

He stared at her for a moment in stunned silence, then a smile slowly spread itself across his face. "I'm a prince, tricked into being a witch's slave," he whispered, and both of their eyes fell to the silver chain around his ankle. "Will you liberate me?"

She pulled from the waist of her dress a shiv, and quickly sliced through the chain. She watched in disbelief as it regrew, leaving her with a small length of silver coiled around her hand.

"I'll only be free when she dies," he said, and his eyes were sad. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," she whispered, and their eyes locked. "It doesn't."

He reached out a hand, she took it, and he led her into his caravan.

He gave her a candle before she left. She didn't know what it was or what it did, but it must have done _something_, because he paired with it the words: "come visit me. Soon." and the instructions to "light this and think of me, and _only_ me."

She wouldn't. She was so full of shame she couldn't even look him in the eyes properly.

She returned to her home in Wall that night, hoping that her little adventure to the Kingdom of Stormhold would soon be forgotten.

Several weeks later, when she woke suddenly and rushed to her chamber pot, the contents of her stomach making a sudden reappearance as she vomited everything she'd had for the previous night's supper, it became obvious that it wouldn't be forgotten any time soon.

Tina and Duncan were married quickly after, to save both families from disgrace. 9 months later, a beautiful baby boy was born.

Eighteen years passed, and the baby—Blaine—grew up, knowing nothing of his unconventional heritage. But never mind how the infant became a boy. This is the story of how Blaine Anderson becomes a man- a much greater challenge altogether. For to achieve it, he must win the heart of his one true love.


	2. Chapter One

**Most of the time, this story will not be updated that rapidly. There just wasn't much editing to do and I only have one class today.**

**Usual disclaimer about not owning Glee or Stardust.  
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Blaine closed the front door quietly, being careful not to wake either of his parents. Although his father loved the idea of Blaine finally growing up and being in love with a girl, his mother disliked Rachel for reasons unknown to him. He'd heard them arguing about it before, late at night when they thought he was asleep.

He didn't like his mother to know when he was going to see Rachel. He released the long breath he'd been holding as the door swung shut, and pulled out a bouquet of flowers from his satchel, only slightly crumpled-looking from their journey in the bag.

The night was brighter than usual—Blaine was certain that the North Star was shining its good fortune down upon him. He sent it a beaming smile as a thank you, and hurried on his way.

Rachel's light was on—Blaine could hear hushed voices from inside the room, meaning that Rachel's friends (the giggly ones) were probably over. For a moment, he hesitated. Should he-?

He shook his head, stooping down to scoop up a handful of pebbles from the ground, rolling them in his hand before tossing them gently at the window. He heard the giggling cease, then Rachel's excited whisper of, "it's him!"

If this was a romance novel (like the kind he pretended _not_ to read), he would feel an excited twist in his stomach, a thrumming in his heart, a flush on his cheeks. He'd long since accepted that what happened in romance novels were over exaggerations of how love actually felt in real life—a mild fondness, a desire to make the other person happy, a willingness to overlook both the discreet and obvious flaws of the other person. He knew he loved Rachel, because he couldn't help but smile when she appeared at the window.

"Oh, it's you," she said, and his smile dropped a fraction. She rubbed at her nose for a second. "Did I leave something at the church?"  
>Blaine was the choir director at the small church on the hill. They met every Wednesday and Saturday night for rehearsal during the year.<p>

"No," he said, forcing the charming smile to remain on his face. "I just-" his carefully planned out speech was interrupted by a sharp _thwack_, and the flowers in his hand fell to the ground, neatly cut in half. He looked up in mild surprise, then suppressed an ungentlemanly sort of sigh (Rachel had once told him she preferred the sort of effortless confidence only the most self-absorbed of gentlemen could exude).

Jesse St. James. The man oozed conceit, condescension, and most importantly, _cruelty_. This was the sort of attitude Blaine would never be able to pull off, even if he tried (and he tried _hard_).

"Blaine Anderson," Jesse said, and Blaine was almost impressed with the sheer amount of arrogance in his voice. "Choirboy by day, peeping Tom by night. Is there no end to your charms?"

"Hello, Jesse," Blaine said patiently.

"Do your sniveling, childlike fantasies ever end?" Jesse asked calmly, jabbing at Blaine's chest with the walking stick he'd used to cut Blaine's flowers in two.

_Don't start anything_, Blaine's brain told him. _Be the bigger man_. He kept his mouth shut and jaw locked.

"Be nice to him, Jesse," Rachel called from the window, only slightly reprovingly.

Jesse pointed his walking stick at the ground. "Ah, were those for Rachel?"

"They were, before you accidentally crushed them," Blaine countered. He in no way believed the event to be an accident—quite the opposite, actually. But Rachel was watching, and he wasn't about to pick a fight in front of her.

"Jesse, be nice to the poor boy," Rachel called again.

Blaine felt a swell of indignation rise in his chest. Just because he was shorter than Jesse!-

"I'll just go then, shall I?" Blaine asked, only semi-sarcastically. "I'll see you at choir tomorrow, Rachel."

He let himself into his house moodily, stomping up the stairs this time. It wasn't _fair_. Jesse was a foolish and manipulative mountebank, and Blaine was a _gentleman_. But apparently, cruel and rude was an attractive quality in men, at least to Rachel.

Choir was uncomfortable the next day. Rachel was actually _flirting_ with him a little—playing coy and fluttering her eyelashes as they sang their hymns. Instead of feeling gratified, Blaine simply felt uncomfortable and a little disturbed by her flirtatious advances.

He tried to chase those feelings away by serenading her romantically with a popular song.

He was dismissed from his position in the choir for inappropriate conduct, which was further described as "jumping on the pews and singing inappropriate lyrics to a lady in a house of worship."

He didn't want to see the look on his mother's face when he told her. He knew his father wouldn't care—his father never cared, not unless it had to do with Rachel (in that case, his father was eager and fully invested).

But oh, lord, his mum—he never liked to let her down.

She was gentle, at least. She listened to his woes about Rachel, even if she didn't approve of the girl.

"Blaine," she said gently, when she was done, "why is it so important for you to be with Rachel? You don't seem besotted with her."

"I am, mother," he said quickly, although for some reason the words sounded false on his lips. "I love her."

"Do you?" his mother mused.

"Mother, I know you don't like Rachel very much. But I would like your blessing. And your help, if you could."

She sighed, leaning her head against her hand. "What sort of assistance do you require?"

xxxxx

The pebble he chose was perfect. It was probably odd for him to notice, but it was exactly the right weight for throwing against a window. Heavy enough to make a noise, yet light enough so as not to crack the glass.

Rachel opened the window, then sighed. "Blaine, what you did today was extremely inappropriate and I think it best if-"

"I know," Blaine interrupted. "and I'm really sorry. Let me make it up to you?" he smiled charmingly.

She sighed in irritation and shut the window.

He stared at the window a second longer, then shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away in resignation. Well, that was a waste of his savings and his mother's time and effort.

Suddenly, Rachel was slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow. "My birthday isn't for two weeks, you know."

He grinned.

The place he'd set up was perfect. Soft candlelight, red wine (with a large bottle of water, in case Rachel wished to water it down), bread, cheese. A blanket, spread out across the damp ground.

"This must've been all your savings," Rachel said. "What are you going to do now? Now that you're gone from the church choir? I mean, I know it can't have paid much, but it still paid some, didn't it?"

"It's a big world out there, Rachel," Blaine said, with a sweeping motion of his arm. "I love singing, but there are places I can sing that are _bigger_, _freer_ than a church choir. I plan to see it all."

"You sound like Jesse," Rachel said. "I may prefer the stories of New York City in America, but did you know that he's planning to travel all the way to Ipswich just to buy me a ring?"

"A ring?" Blaine asked, his forehead wrinkling. "What—what kind of ring?" He couldn't do this. He couldn't lose the chance to win Rachel over—his father was already asking when he was going to tie the knot with her. He had to marry for fondness as his parents had, rather than love—because who knew if he'd ever _really_ find love? He certainly wouldn't in Wall.

"Word is he's planning to propose to me on my birthday," Rachel said, with a slightly smug smile, taking a sip of her watered down wine. "Mmm, this is delicious. It tastes like... like pink!"

In his own slightly tipsy-headed state, her strange comment actually made sense. In fact, the more he drank, the more _everything_ made sense—marrying her, included. The more he drank, the more attractive she got. "And you're going to say yes?"

"Well, I can't exactly say no," Rachel giggled. "After he's gone all the way to Ipswich."

"Rachel, for your hand I'd cross _oceans_," Blaine said earnestly, taking her hand in his. He took in her slightly skeptical expression. "Or _continents_."

"Really?" Rachel asked, taking another sip of wine, but keeping her eyes on him.

"Yes," Blaine said, moving a little closer on the blanket. "Rachel, for your hand in marriage, I'd go to... to New York and bring you back enough champagne to fill a lake. I would. I'd go to Africa and bring you back a diamond as big as your face."

Rachel was slowly drawing closer—it was obvious what her intention was, and yet why was that making Blaine's stomach queasier and queasier?

"I'd—I'd go to Antarctica and slaughter a polar bear and bring you back its head," Blaine said. Rachel was so close he could smell the wine on her breath.

She pulled back abruptly, a look of disgust on her face. "A polar bear's head? Ugh."

Blaine tried to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"Mm, you're funny, Blaine," Rachel said, tapping his nose. He pulled away from the touch a little. "But people like you, and people like me, well. Jesse is far more suited for my ambition and my talents."

Blaine laughed, a little incredulously.

"I should go," Rachel said, breaking the brief silence.

"Wait, just—let's just finish the wine," Blaine said, pouring himself another glass. There went his chances for an easy life. He would never have had to explain himself to Rachel—he could stay private, and quiet, and closed, and she never would have noticed, so self-absorbed was she. Where would he find another woman like her, a woman he'd never have to share himself with?

"Well, all right," Rachel said, holding out her half-empty glass.

Had Blaine known then how the stars watched Earth, he'd have shuddered at the very thought of an audience to his humiliation. But, fortunately for him, nearly every star in the sky was, at that moment, looking in earnest at the land on the other side of the wall—where the King of all Stormhold lay on his deathbed. Which was a coincidence, because it was the King's final act that would change the course of Blaine's destiny forever.

"Where is Samuel?" the King asked, gazing tired-eyed around the room.

"He's on his way, father," said his youngest, her eyes intense in a way that frightened the other two children standing by their father's bed.

"Then we will wait," the King said, closing his eyes gently to give himself a bit of a rest.

The door swung open in a wild burst, and Sam strode through, his long cloak fluttering wildly around his ankles. "Sorry I'm late, father," he said, kneeling down beside the ornate bed.

His father nodded, smiling warmly. "You're here now, and that's all that matters."

Sam stood slowly. "Quinn. Lauren. Santana," he said curtly, nodding to each in turn.

"Things have changed in Stormhold," the King murmured. "This is very unusual—three _females_ in contention for the throne, and only one male."

Sam could feel Santana's hard, black gaze on him, and his skin crawled as his brain flashed to the steel of a blade sharp against his throat, a snake-like tongue hissing in his ear. _"Drop out now, or you know what I'm capable of_."

He cleared his throat. "Er. Father?"

The King weakly turned his head to look at his second child. "Yes?"

"I wish to drop out of the running for the crown," he said quietly. "I have no desire to be King, nor would I be a good candidate for it."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Santana's smug smile.

"If you're sure," the King said, uncertainly.

"I'm sure," Sam said. His life was worth more than a crown he didn't even want—although he didn't think Santana, Quinn, or Lauren were the right people to rule, either. Part of him wished that Mike was still alive, but that wasn't possible. He'd died years ago.

"Well, then," the King said. "You may go."

He was out of the door in the blink of an eye, his heart pounding a beat of relief in his chest.

"Now, to the matter of succession, now that Sam is out of the running and your other three brothers are, sadly, deceased," the King mused.

Santana, Lauren, and Quinn all exchanged glances.

"We will do this in a most unconventional way," the King declared. "Without the usual violence and bloodshed that normally accompanies the fight for the throne, hopefully."

"Although tradition dictates that the throne must pass to a male heir, there are no longer any male heirs in the running," the King said, lifting the chain front his neck. "Therefore, we shall resolve the situation in a non-traditional manner." He clasped the chain from his necklace in his fist. A large ruby dangled from the end. The three women watched as the stone glowed, shifting and swirling from a dark, red ruby into a transparent, crystal-like stone. "Only one of royal blood can restore the ruby, and the one of you that does so shall be the new ruler of Stormhold."

Within his next breath, he was dead.

Santana was the first to make a grab for the floating necklace. To her immense surprise, it darted out of the way, nearly whipping her in the face as it shot up into the air and out the wide open window.

The stone gained speed as it climbed higher and higher into the sky. Perhaps it could have gone on forever, had it not collided with another object. A noise rocked the heavens, a shockwave of purple and blue pulsing from where the collision had occurred. Within moments, both the necklace and whatever it had collided with were streaking for the ground, moving in a graceful arc across the sky.

"Oh, Blaine, a shooting star!" Rachel cried. "Stars are sort of a metaphor for me, you know. For me being a star," she confided. "Oh, it's beautiful."

Blaine hesitated. "More beautiful than a fancy ring from Ipswich?" Blaine asked quietly. This was his _only_ chance.

She looked at him in tipsy inquiry.

He knelt before her. "Rachel, for your hand in marriage, I'd cross the wall and I'd bring you back that fallen star."

"You can't cross the wall," Rachel said, in an almost condescending tone, and Blaine actually felt a tinge of annoyance. It was gone as quickly as it came. "Nobody crosses the wall."

"I'd do it," Blaine said immediately. "For you I'd do anything."

"Hmmm." Rachel sat back on her heels, tipping her head as she thought. "My very own star." She hesitated only a moment, then held out her wine glass. "It seems we have ourselves an agreement. You have exactly two weeks, or I'm marrying Jesse."

They clinked their glasses together.

xxxxx

There it was. A streak across the sky, traveling thousands of miles per hour across the heavens, a bright flash in the dark.

Four hundred years they'd waited for this. He'd been old far too long.

xxxxx

The star landed in a crater.

Or, no, maybe the star _created_ the crater when it landed.

Regardless, there was a massive shockwave that burned down several hundred feet of trees around the crater, and a white glow emanating from the center of the crater that slowly faded until it became apparent that it was coming from the chest of a boy.

A boy lay on the blackened ground, in the middle of a massive crater.

His eyes were closed, his face screwed up in pain, but even with that it was easy to tell that he was beautiful. He had a subtle glow to his porcelain skin and auburn hair that was fading every second. His features were thin, elfin, pointed, his nose turned up, his lips full and pink, his jaw smooth and angular. He was clothed completely in a soft silver fabric that shimmered subtly.

In a moment, his eyelashes fluttered. His eyes were a strange blue-green-silver that somehow glowed just as his skin did. His head tipped to his right.

A large necklace lay a few feet from him, set with what looked like a diamond. The very reason for his presence in this god-forsaken crater, he realized with a scowl.

But the pain was too much, and before he could get much further along that line of thought, he drifted into blackness.

xxxxx

His bones were stiff, creaky, _old_ as he hurried inside. His brothers were asleep on the bed, all tangled up together. He slammed his hands against the table to wake them.

"What is it, at this hour?" one croaked, rubbing a fist across a wrinkled eyelid.

"A star," he whispered, pausing dramatically, "has fallen."

It took his brothers a moment to react, and then—a gasp, as both of them fell from the bed.

"Where are the Babylon candles?" he asked angrily. The cabinet seemed empty but for a few useless odds and ends.

"You used the last one, Karofsky. Two hundred years ago, do you not recall?" asked Azimio.

"Perhaps we could obtain another?" Strando suggested.

Karofsky whirled on him. "Has your mind become as old and decayed as your face, Strando? You speak as if such things... are freely available."

"I know, brother, I merely thought-"

"No use hunting for a Babylon candle while some other warlock finds _our star_," Karofsky said viciously, slamming his hand back onto the table. "Idiot. There's no time to waste. If we must retrieve it on foot, then we will." He paced to the cages on the far end of the dimly lit room, to where dozens of half-starved animals were confined. "Azimio. We need more information."

An animal was selected—a weasel, white with a black-tipped tail.

Azimio selected a knife and slit the animal from throat to tail. All three leaned forward to examine the creature's innards.

"Hm," Karofsky said. "If these... divinations are correct, the fallen star lies one hundred miles away."

"Four centuries we've waited for this," Strando said, as they all straightened up slowly. "What trouble is a few more days?"

"Who shall go, then, to seek it and bring it back?" Azimio asked, and the three exchanged a significant look, before closing their eyes and reaching their hands into the slit belly of the animal.

Karofsky's eyelids cracked. He checked first to his right, then to his left—to the still closed eyes of his brothers—then peered down at the animal, examining the organs until his fingers closed around the thing they were all searching for.

The other two opened their eyes.

"I've his liver," said Strando.

"I've his kidney," said Azimio.

"And I've his heart," said Karofsky, failing to keep the smug tone from his voice.

The other two looked at him.

"You'll be needing what's left of the last star," Strando said, producing a small wooden box dusted with cobwebs.

Karofsky opened the box. "There's not much left," he said, examining the remains critically.

"Oh, but soon there will be enough for us all."

Karofsky cupped the piece in his hand, clasping it to his chest possessively as he strode to the mirror. He'd been old and ugly and weak for far too long.

He wanted to _see_ it when he regained his youth.

It was quick, really—as soon as the piece of the star hit the back of his throat, he began to change. The wrinkles smoothed, his skin tightening and shrinking. His hair grew from his follicles—he'd had none before. His eyes sharpened, his teeth whitened. It was over in a matter of seconds.

He was never the best looking of men, maybe. A prince would always outshine a warlock by far. But right then, compared to his two brothers, he looked like Michaelangelo's David.

xxxxx

It was even later when he left Rachel, but Blaine knew he had to at least try. What she'd said was true—crossing the wall was just something _nobody could do_.

But he had to try.

"Blaine Anderson," the figure at the wall sang. Drunk, as usual. It figured.

"Hello, April," he said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

"You're not trying to cross the wall too, are you?" the gatekeeper asked suspiciously, swaying where she stood.

"Too? Who else has crossed the wall?" he asked curiously.

"Nobody. Nobody crosses the wall, you know that," she said quickly, blocking his way with the staff she carried at all times.

"No, I know," he said, a plan formulating in his head. "Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight, Blaine," the guard called, already beginning to pace away from the entrance to the wall. "Give my best to your parents."

It was now or never. Blaine turned tail and ran headfirst for the wall, and he was through, and-

And he definitely wasn't expecting the guard to flip over the wall and whack him in the stomach with the stick, giving him a kick that sent him flying back into Wall. She rapped him sharply against the skull, spinning her stick back into an upright position.

"Like mother, like son," she chuckled, resting her hands on the top of her staff. "Off you go, now."

His mother gasped when he walked through the door, her hands fluttering to her mouth. "Oh, honey!"

"What are you doing up so late?" he asked stiffly. She ignored the question, bustling over to the ice box.

"What _happened_?" she asked, turning with a slab of steak in hand. "Was it Jesse again?"

"No, actually," Blaine said, irritated for more than one reason. "It was the guard. The guard at the wall?"

"Blaine, she's an alcoholic," his mother said gently. "She can't even _stand_ straight."

"Well, being inebriated certainly improves her coordination, now doesn't it," Blaine snapped back, pressing the steak against his face.

"Why, may I ask, were you trying to cross the wall?"

Blaine lifted the steak from his eye. "I might ask you the same thing."

For a moment, his mother held his gaze; then her shoulders slumped. "Come with me."

xxxxx

It was dark, and cold, and _everything_ hurt, and he just wanted to go back to the sky where he _belonged_. It felt like his back was absolutely covered with bruises when he sat up.

The necklace, the goddamn necklace that had been the cause of all his problems, lay only a few feet away. He remembered it being there last time, right before he'd blacked out. This time, he reached out a hand for it. He half-expected it to do something—bite him, or bludgeon him, or something.

But no, it actually appeared to be _just a necklace, _and he fastened it around his neck.

xxxxx

"So... dad's not my father," Blaine said, blankly. He could feel his mother's eyes on him, but he couldn't meet them quite yet. He was still in a state of shock.

"No," his mother said softly.

"I mean, but, I have a father. He could still be alive."

"Well, I hope so. I certainly like to _think_ so." Tina hesitated, then reached behind her into a box. They were seated on the floor of the attic, the trapdoor leading up to it shut firmly—there would be no interruptions. "Blaine... he doesn't know you exist."

"Of course not," Blaine muttered.

"I have these," his mother offered, holding out a small length of silver chain and the glass flower.

"The chain you cut," Blaine said, with a faint smile, reaching up to clasp it in his hand. It made a strange, almost musical sound as it passed from mother to son. "Just like you said. And the flower." He tucked the latter into his lapel.

"And this," Tina said, producing a slim black candle. "I don't know what it does, but I'm assuming it can be used as some sort of means of travel. He told me to light it, and then think of him and only him." She sighed. "And I do, Blaine. All the time. Your father and I—you have to know that-"

"I know," Blaine said, softly, and he met her eyes with a soft smile. "I hear you two fighting when you think I'm asleep."

"Well, do you—do you have a light?" he asked, clasping the candle in his hand.

She shuffled around for a matchbook, finding one under a basket nearby, and struck a match. She held it out, and he touched the wick of the candle to the flame.

There was a dazzling burst of light and a rushing noise, and when it cleared, Blaine was gone.

xxxxx

It was hard to stand—his leg felt stiff, swollen, _not right_ in a way he'd never experienced before. The walls of the crater were high, the bottom far too deep for him to climb. And yet, he knew he couldn't possibly _stay_ there. But where else could he go?

He took a step, testing out his injured leg, before limping across the oddly smooth surface of the impact zone. The rest of the crater was rocky, jagged, but where he'd hit was silvery and smooth. His clothes were untouched by soot.

There was a rumbling noise—like thunder, only not quite. He turned.

There was a light rushing toward him, a concentrated ball of light that was literally headed directly for him. Could it be another star?

He only had a moment to wonder before he was hit square in the chest by it—a man. No, not a man, a boy, and they both fell to the ground.

Absolutely bloody _fantastic_, he thought bitterly.


	3. Chapter Two

**So here we go. Again, up faster than expected. Maybe this will become a pattern.**

**Usual don't-own-glee disclaimer. I also don't own Stardust.**

**Chapter Two  
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"Father?" said the moronic boy.

_Father?_

"Oh, father, I'm so sorry!" The boy lifted himself up a little, still staring at him, and he was starting to feel a little bit _uncomfortable_. Clearly the boy had never learned the value of personal space. "Are you all right?"

Was he _all right_? He resisted the urge to laugh bitterly. "No, I'm not, and I'm not your _father_, so get _off_ me!"

The boy looked startled, and he actually felt indignant. Did he _look_ old enough to be someone's father? His_ own _father often teased him for looking so youthful.

"You're—you're not my father?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Really, the boy was _slow_. "Do I _look_ like I'm your father?"

It took a second, where the other boy's eyes swept his body and he actually _felt_ something—maybe self consciousness—before the boy's eyes returned to his face and he actually grinned. _Grinned_. "No."

"Then... get off me?" he said pointedly, gesturing down to his body.

"Well, are you all right? Do you need some help?" the boy asked, getting up off him.

He blew his bangs off his face irritably, because _really_? "You can help by leaving me alone."

The boy seemed to get the message, pacing away, examining the walls of the crater. He could hear him muttering some words about lighting candles and-

"_Think of me_," the boy said, and it was impossible to ignore or drown out his voice. It wasn't that he had a _bad_ voice, persay, and—no, no, he wasn't going to go there, he'd been down that road and it never ended well for him. "I did, I thought of my fath—oh, but then Rachel and the star just... popped into my head..."

The boy spun around, and he tried to pretend he hadn't been looking at him. He really was _very_ good looking, even if his hair was slicked back against his skull—_no. Stop. Non-magical humans have a very different regard towards these kinds of feelings_.

The boy was examining the ground, the walls of the crater around them, with a frantic sort of excitement. "Excuse me, sir, sorry-" he called.

He straightened the sleeves of his silvery shirt and looked up, purposefully projecting an air of impatient superiority.

"This may seem a bit strange, but have you seen a fallen star anywhere?" the boy asked, crouching down beside him.

He let out a little puff of laughter. "Oh, you're funny." Really, quite the _comedian_.

"No, really," the boy said, earnestly. "We're in a crater, so this must be where it fell."

He cast his eyes around disbelievingly. "Yeah, this _is_ where it fell," he said, letting the full weight of the _derision_ he was holding in sink into his voice. "Oh, if you want to be _really_ specific." He pointed to the sky. "Up _there's _where this _stupid _bloody necklace came out of nowhere and knocked it out of the heavens when it was minding its own business." he pointed over to where he'd been lying fifteen minutes prior to their first meeting. "And over _there's_ where it landed. And right _here_," he paused, fixing the boy with his most menacing of glares, "is where it was hit by a magical, _flying_ moron!"

The boy's reaction was unexpected. His lips parted, his eyes widening in an expression that could only be identified as delight. "You're the star? Really?"

The star gave the boy a slightly sarcastic smile.

"Oh wow, I had no idea you'd be-"

"A boy, instead of a beautiful, pale, blond young woman?" he asked, shrewdly, with a hint of iciness in his voice. "Well. You aren't the only one. I'm a rarity. Lucky me."

"No," said the boy, and the star was once again startled by the earnestness of his voice. "I just had no idea you'd be so... beautiful."

_Don't_, he warned himself as he felt his cheeks begin to glow a little. _Don't you start that again_.

"May I just say, in advance, that I know this is terribly rude and please believe that I wasn't brought up this way. Also, I _am_ sorry."

"Sorry for what?" He asked warily.

"For this," the boy said, winding a silvery chain around his wrist that somehow magically lengthened as he did so. "If I'm not mistaken, this means you have to come with me. See, you're going to be a birthday gift for my Rachel."

He laughed in disdain. "Oh, lovely. Because nothing says _romance_ like the gift of a captured male. Do you _realize_ what message you'll be sending her if you give her another _man_ as a gift?"

"I never claimed to be good at romance," the boy mumbled, clearly a little put out.

"I'm not going _anywhere_ with you," he huffed, turning his back on the boy.

The boy didn't seem all that put out. "My name's Blaine," he offered.

_Really_? Where was his sense of social normalcy?

"Kurt," he said, after a moment.

xxxxx

The world would be a better place under Lauren's rule.

This, she was certain of. The country didn't _need_ someone untouchable like Quinn, beautiful and cold and falsely benevolent. They didn't need a violent, thinly-veiled lover-of-women like Santana (where would they get an heir, anyway?). They needed someone they could relate to, someone like them, someone that _wasn't _untouchable.

Like Lauren.

"I know what you're doing."

Quinn's voice echoed through the empty hall, bouncing off the high, ornate walls.

Lauren took her time turning around. She wasn't about to give Quinn the pleasure of knowing that she'd startled her. "And what, exactly, is it that I'm doing?" she asked, plastering a look of polite confusion on her face.

"Don't play stupid with me," Quinn said, her face hardening as she strode forward.

Lauren felt a momentary pang in her chest as she took in the way Quinn's soft blue gown clung to her slight curves and willowy frame, the way her long blond hair cascaded down her back, the way her long eyelashes fluttered over her deep green eyes.

They were sisters by name and technicality only. They may have been biologically related, but nothing in their appearance or personality showed it. Quinn was a statuesque beauty, the very picture of something you might see in the painting of a goddess or angel. Lauren was brown-haired and eyed, with a specific body type that didn't fit in with the conventional idea of "beauty". Lauren never would.

Some part of her knew that Quinn was destined to get the crown, even if she wasn't deserving of it.

"You think you're better suited for the crown than I am," Quinn said, one perfect eyebrow arching in a perfect curve over her eye to show off her displeasure. "But I think we both realize that the Kingdom has already chosen their favorite for queen, no matter who may actually be better suited for the throne. And I think we both know it isn't you."

Her voice was sticky-sweet, prickly in a way that Lauren had learned to recognize. She leaned forward.

"Maybe I'm not the Kingdom's favorite," she said, "but that doesn't mean I won't fight until the very end to make sure that neither you nor Santana are on the receiving end of the crown."

Quinn's face tightened.

"Very well, Lauren," she said, taking a step back, her voice hardening. "I was prepared to make a deal with you, but I see that isn't an option here. All I will do is forewarn you—before, this was solely a business competition. I had nothing against you. But now?" she folded her arms, her scowl deepening. "Now, it just got personal."

xxxxx

"Samuel."

Sam felt himself freeze.

"Don't pretend you didn't hear me," Santana snapped. "Turn around."

He turned slowly, closing his eyes for a moment to offer a quick prayer to the stars. "What is it, Santana?"

"I need your help," she said, without preamble.

This actually gave him pause. "_Princess Santana_, actually admitting to needing someone's help?" he asked incredulously. "That's something I thought I'd never experience. I must admit, now I'm curious."

"Shut up," Santana snapped, reaching him. "I need that stone."

"In my opinion, you're not exactly the best suited for the throne-" Sam began, but then Santana's eyes glinted in an eerie way in the dim lighting, and Sam was suddenly reminded of _exactly_ what she could do to him.

"I need you to help me get it."

"How exactly am I supposed to help you with that?" Sam asked. "If you don't recall, I backed out of the competition for the throne. And if I accidentally touch the stone before you do, I'll be crowned the next King of Stormhold, whether I like it or not. Is that really a risk you're willing to take?"

"Believe it or not, I trust you more than anyone else I know," Santana said, rolling her eyes to the side the way she always did when she admitted something that she thought made her weak. "And you have the best knowledge of the land—all the shortcuts, all the tricks and traps. And I need someone like that with me. My men are loyal, but idiotic. They have no idea which way is North, let alone anything about the actual topography of the land."

Sam studied her face for a moment. It was hard, determined.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" he finally asked.

For the first time, she cracked a smile. "No," she said. "You don't."

xxxxx

His clothes had to be tightened.

That was the best part, really, that he'd changed so much that his clothes needed to be tightened. It was wonderful to see the jealousy etched in his brothers' faces as they used their meager supply of magic to tailor his clothing until it fit correctly again, both for the changed time and for his body.

He turned away from his brothers as one of them attempted to adjust the sleeve of his robe.

"How have we lived this way all these years?" he asked, peering at the filth that surrounded them. He snapped his fingers once, lighting the long row of chandeliers that lined the enormous hall. His lip curled, and he turned away, holding out a hand. Azimio slid a ruby-encrusted ring onto his middle finger—a method of communication between the two warlocks who would remain here and the one who would venture into the outside world.

"While I'm gone, I'm expecting you to clean it up. Make it fit for the Kings we are," Karofsky said, taking a long knife from the selection held before him. "When I return with our prize... all of us will be young again."

He held out his hand, and Strando dropped a handful of runes onto his palm.

"Have no fear, my brothers," said Karofsky, striding for the door, "I will not fail."

xxxxx

Kurt gnawed at the chain around his wrist. He normally didn't like to use his teeth as tools, but this seemed to be a dire situation.

"Do you ever sleep?"

He started, turning around to see Blaine's eyes trained on him. He hadn't even known Blaine was awake.

"Not at night," he huffed, his voice coming out a lot more sharply than he'd intended it to. "It may have escaped your notice, but that's when stars have better things to do. Like coming out, shining."

_Coming out_. He felt a wry sort of smile twist his lips. He'd leapt that particular obstacle years ago. Magic-based communities were far more accepting than non-magic based ones.

_Far_ more accepting, seeing as in most places in the world, the punishment for homosexuality was death.

"Yeah, well, it might have escaped _yours_, but you're not in the sky anymore," Blaine said, and his voice was a little snappy, too, a little condescending. "Coming out is... off the agenda."

_For you, certainly_, Kurt thought, then wondered where on earth _that_ bitter thought had come from.

"Shining has been... suspended, until further notice."

Kurt gritted his teeth. "No danger of that, considering my situation," he muttered, so softly he doubted Blaine heard. He only shined when happy, and he'd certainly shone brightly when he'd been up in the sky; that was when he was at his happiest. He doubted he'd _ever_ shine again, down here on earth. It was a dismal place.

"Sleeping during the day is... O-U-T. Unless you've got some sort of magical ability to sleep while you're walking."

Okay, _that_ was it.

"Have you not got it through your grease-laden head yet?" Kurt said sharply. "I'm not _walking_ anywhere! I'm not going anywhere with you; I don't even _know_ you."

For a moment, Kurt actually felt like he'd kicked a puppy or something to that extent. Blaine's smile fell; he looked crushed.

Kurt could only feel guilty for a short moment, though, because Blaine's face slipped back into a neutral sort of expression—slightly offended, slightly bored, but definitely not kicked-puppy.

"Fine, then," he said, standing up. "Sit in a crater. I've had enough of you, anyway." And suddenly, there was a momentary flare of hurt in _Kurt's_ chest, and where did _that_ come from, anyway? But Blaine was already speaking again. "I was going to put you back in the sky, once I'd brought you to my Rachel, but clearly you'd rather sit here by yourself forever."

Kurt scoffed, even as his heart leapt to his throat hopefully. "And just how were you planning to get me back to the sky?"

Blaine pulled something from his pocket. "I find the fastest way to travel is by candlelight."

Kurt whipped his head around so fast he was surprised he didn't strain something in his neck. "You've got a Babylon candle!"

"Yeah... I've got a babbling candle," Blaine said, grinning crookedly, and his idiocy was actually fairly adorable.

"A Babylon candle," Kurt corrected, but gently.

"That's what I said," Blaine said, but his voice was pouty and childish so Kurt ignored it, reaching for the candle stub. Blaine held it out of reach. "Anyway, I was going to give what was left of it to you."

Kurt thought for a moment, pursing his lips. "Well, that barely has one use left in it," he said, examining the inch or so that was left of the candle.

"You can have it, really," Blaine said. "I was going to use it to get us back to Wall, but we can walk. It can't be further than two week's travel, can it?"

Kurt assumed it was a rhetorical question, and didn't answer.

"Unless you have a better way of getting yourself home," Blaine said, uncertainly.

Kurt didn't, but he wasn't about to give Blaine that kind of satisfaction by admitting it out loud. "Fine," he said, flinging his wrist up, well-aware of the fact that he was acting like a petulant child. He _deserved_ to be a little whiny, with the day he'd been having. "Help me up."

He was surprised when Blaine actually did as he'd demanded, rushing forward to grab Kurt by the elbow and lift him to his feet. He didn't let Kurt go immediately, either, waiting until he was sure Kurt had stable footing before he released his arm.

"We're going to have to walk quickly," Blaine said, smiling gently at Kurt in a way that made something warm start to spread in Kurt's stomach. It evaporated quickly at his next sentence. "Otherwise I'll never get you back to Rachel in a week."

"Don't push your luck," Kurt snapped.

xxxxx

"_Don't take less than a florin for him, Jacob, do you understand me?"_

Jacob winced, tying a rope around the neck of the goat he was going to attempt to sell when he went to town. "Yes, mother."

"No dilly-dallying! And don't even _think_ of stopping at the tavern, Jacob, or you'll be sorry!"

Jacob sighed, rubbing a hand over his bushy hair, and turned. He started. There was a man there—large, bulky, but with a warm smile.

"A florin for your goat, boy," he said, in a kind voice.

"Um-" he said, then cast his eyes to the side, where a cart he didn't recognize sat. "Oh—he's a bit small to pull your cart."

"Hmm," said the man, the smile still on his face. "You're quite right."

And he pointed a finger at Jacob, who watched in strange fascination as it began to glow green. He found he couldn't move as the man got closer and closer to Jacob. He was shrinking, he realized in a misty, far-off sort of way, because now the man was towering over him. And then he remembered nothing, and thought of nothing.

Karofsky looked down in satisfaction at the small brown goat that now stood before him, beside the other goat the poor boy had been trying to sell. He may have felt more remorse (but he doubted that) if he hadn't heard the boy's mother yelling at him from inside the house moments before. He was doing him a favor this way—the boy was actually probably somewhat relieved.

He glanced at his hand, and was horrified to see age spots reappear on it—he was losing the little youth the remains of the last star had given him.

It took only a second to hitch the two goats to his cart, and in a moment, he was on his way.

As he drove away, he thought he might've heard the boy's mother calling after him, but he didn't look back to see.

It wasn't his concern, anyway.

xxxxx

Santana had considered making Sam go on foot, just to be cruel.

But it would have been useless, considering they needed to get to the shores of Lima as quickly as they could.

Instead, she gave Sam the most uncomfortable saddle, and watched him squirm. It was an enjoyable way to pass the time.

Quinn moved in an opposite direction from her Santana—she was clever. She had hired the soothsayer Santana was using, telling him to give her directions in completely the opposite direction than she should be traveling.

Lauren followed close behind, just out of sight of her sister. She knew that when it came to it, she could outfight Santana. She just needed to wait, and bide her time until her sister found the stone.

Each were certain that they would be the one to find the stone and win the crown.

xxxxx

There was an interesting-looking yellow caravan along the path, with a woman sitting outside of it. She was cooking something over a fire—not unusual around these parts, but Karofsky knew that she wasn't simply a poor old woman when he saw the other various dead animals and herbs hanging from the front of the van.

She was a witch.

Karofsky let a smile curve across his face as he stopped the cart, approaching the woman.

"Who goes there?" the woman's voice was not timid or cowardly, as he'd expected, but strong, confident, arrogant. "I know three different forms of self-defense and I can do things that would make your head spin, boy."

"Oh, shut up, I know what you are," Karofsky said, indifferently. "I'm the same. But I swear by the rules of the fellowship to which we both belong that I mean no harm. I just want to share your meal. I'm hungry."

"One can never be too careful," the woman said, her eyes calculating. "Sit down. I'll get you a seat, assuming you can't provide one for yourself."

Karofsky's lip curled. He'd heard of this woman—mean, rude, condescending. Cocky and egotistical.

Ditchwater Sue.

Sue snapped her fingers, and a canary that had been sitting quietly on a perch by the caravan door burst into a yellow smoke, which quickly evaporated to reveal a young, good-looking Asian man. Karofsky allowed himself to admire his form for a moment as the boy set a stool down by the fire for him, then turned to Sue. "Anything else?"

Karofsky could _hear_ the resentment dripping from his voice.

"Not right now, waltzing Matilda," Sue said, snapping her fingers once more, and a canary fluttered on a chain by the door.

_Show off_, Karofsky thought, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

There was silence as the meat cooked—Sue was sizing him up, he could tell, and he let her. He didn't have to reveal his identity to her unless it was completely necessary—if he needed her cooperation, or her slaveboy.

If there was such a thing as royalty amongst magical beings, then Karofsky and his two brothers were considered the Kings. They reigned over the world of magic with iron fists, controlling not only the witches and the warlocks of the land, but the soothsayers, wizards, seers, and all sorts of other magical creatures. Any sort of power that was possible to be had, they had it. They could use magic in the same way as witches and warlocks, and tell the future like soothsayers and seers. They could create enchantments and potions like wizards. They could transform like shape-shifters.

He saw no need to inform Sue of this, however. He found her antics amusing - she was clearly trying to impress him with her ability to transform the slave boy into a bird and back again (child's play, in comparison to what he could do). He let her try.

"What's it to be?" Sue asked, rapping on the carcass of the roasting rabbit with a long stick. "Heads? Or tails? You seem to me like the kind of man who'd enjoy _head_, if I may."

He ignored the slight jab in her thinly-veiled double entendre, and nodded tersely. "Heads."

Sue cut the rabbit open without another word, rolling both halves in a seasoning before passing the plate with the head of the rabbit over to Karofsky. He bit into it gratefully, reveling in the taste. _Oh_... it'd been too long since he'd had fresh meat like this.

"So, stranger," Sue started. "Where you headed off to on a day like this? Off to Wall, for a boy of fancy?" Her eyebrows raised in a decidedly condescending sort of smirk.

"I seek a fallen star," Karofsky said, purposefully ignoring the second part of her question. "It fell not far from here. And when I find it, I will take my great knife and cut out its heart while it still lives. And the glory of our youth... will be... restored."

_Why_ couldn't he stop talking? He hadn't meant to share that much with her—especially not what, exactly, it was that he was seeking.

He lifted the plate to his face, sniffing at the herbs she'd used to season the meat with. It only took a moment, and then—_there_. There it was.

"I could do with losing a few years myself, although that might put me back into my teenage years," the ridiculous woman was saying, and Karofsky threw down his plate.

"Limbus grass!" he cried, standing. "You dared to sneak answers out of me by giving me _limbus grass_!"

He'd perhaps have forgiven her, had she had the decency to look even the slightest bit ashamed. As it was, she only rolled her eyes and made an impatient huffing noise.

"Do you have any idea what you've done, Ditchwater Sue?" he asked, softly.

The sky darkened—thunder rumbled overhead. He was _angry_. _Furious_.

"How do you know my-" Sue started, then stopped, wary. "Who are you?"

"_Look again_," he said, and for a moment, the age took over his face, the years and the power and the corruption took over his face and his eyes became black and sunken and decrepit. His eyes became recognizable as those of a dark King.

Sue fell to her knees immediately—a humiliating stance for one who thought so highly of herself. "I shall not seek the star, your Dark Majesty," she gasped, reaching out with one hand to clutch at Karofsky's robes.

Karofsky wrenched them away, pointing one glowing finger at her. He was shaking with rage—lightning crackled in the sky overhead. "Seek all you wish," he growled, and the blast from the force of his enchantment blew her hair backwards. "You will not see the star, touch it, smell, or hear it. You will not perceive it even if it stands before you."

The air settled around them as he glanced at his unmarked hand, slight horror coloring his face as it grew age spots to match the other. He was already aging—soon, he would be back in the same situation as he had been in before the star. Magic aged him—he _had_ to remember that, and only use it for truly necessary things.

But this _was_ necessary, he argued with himself, before remembering that Ditchwater Sue was still kneeling before him, looking at him with terrified eyes.

"Pray you never meet me again, Ditchwater Sue," he said. His voice, which had been cruel before, only came out as tired as he turned away.

xxxxx

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Kurt said, sarcasm oozing from his voice. "You _think_ we're going the right way because, _and I quote_, 'I just _do_'?"

"I _do_, though," Blaine said, only a hint of exasperation coloring his voice. "I don't know, maybe it's my... love... for Rachel guiding me in the right direction. Kurt, whether you like it or not-"

"Would you _please_ slow down," Kurt pleaded, stumbling a little on his injured leg. He looked upset with himself, that he'd had to ask.

Blaine slowed immediately. "Yes, of course," he said, flashing a smile at the star. "I had no idea I was going too quickly for you. My apologies."

Kurt sighed, leaning heavily on his good leg, staring balefully down the path ahead of them.

"Look, we're going North, right?" Blaine said, in a reassuring tone. "The Wall's North. And if you look up in the sky, even during the day, you can see the—the North Star-" his eyebrows furrowed. "That's—that's odd-"

"Hilarious. My sides are splitting," Kurt said, dryly, pacing away from him.

"That was _you_," Blaine said, a smile creeping up on his face. "You're the North Star? Isn't that kind of an... important position?"

_ "Very _important, all things considered," Kurt snapped, dropping down to the ground to lean up against a tree.

"Wait—no—what're you doing?" Blaine asked, the grin sliding off his face.

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" Kurt snapped, crossing his arms across his chest in a petulant way that was still somehow adorable. "I'm sitting down. I'm tired."

"Please, Kurt, we agreed we'd stop over in the next town. I hate to rush you, I know you're in pain, but we're on a bit of a tight schedule-"

"Come on Blaine," Kurt said. He seemed on the verge of tears. "It's _midday. _I'm _never_ up this late. Please, just let me sleep!"

"Okay," Blaine said, softly, feeling his heart melt a little. Kurt looked vulnerable—not like some otherworldly creature, more like a young boy. "Okay, you sleep. I'll go and get something to eat. Are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"

"There's nobody out here," Kurt said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "I'll be fine."

"I'm really sorry about this," Blaine said, crouching down beside him and winding the silvery chain around the tree. "I don't _like_ to do this, but I really have to make sure you don't run away. You're my only chance with Rachel."

Kurt sighed, and his eyes slid shut. "Do what you must," he said, in a resigned sort of tone.

xxxxx

"Who the hell hired this soothsayer?" Santana whispered furiously to Sam. He shrugged.

"It wasn't me."

"Well, whoever it was ought to be fired on the spot," Santana growled, "then devoured by hungry animals. The man's a lunatic! I've half a mind he works for Lauren or Quinn."

She froze.

"Quinn," she breathed, her eyes narrowing.

"Quinn wouldn't-" Sam began to protest, but Santana threw up a hand, cutting him off.

"Oh yes, she would," she said, tugging at the reigns of her horse. They'd reached the shores of the ocean at the far side of Stormhold—they could go no further. She slid gracefully from her horse—Sam tried to follow suit and got tangled in the stirrups—and approached the wizened soothsayer, who was clambering off his own cross-eyed mule.

"Your highness," crackled the old man, who was rather cross-eyed himself.

"South, you said," said Santana, her eyes dark as she scanned the sea before her. She could hear his nervous shuffling from where he stood behind her. "And South we went. Still no stone. Do you now propose we start swimming?"

"Madam," said the man, "I only relate what the runes tell me. I can do no more."

"Well, consult them again," Santana said, removing her slim leather gloves and tossing them at Sam, before spinning around. "Wait."

Her face was deceptively friendly, open. Sam wouldn't have trusted it in a second, but the soothsayer seemed to. He met her smile with a toothless one of his own.

"Before we seek the stone," Santana continued, taking a step forward, "I have another question. Am I the seventh heir?"

The soothsayer shook his runes in his hand, then tossed them into the shallow bowl formed in the top of the large block of ice that stood between them. He looked up from the runes, which had all landed, symbol-side up. "Yes," he said, his grin widening.

"Another question," Santana said, her smirk widening. "Is my favorite color red?"

The soothsayer shook the carved bones again, tossing them into the ice bowl. "Yes," he said.

"Has excessive begging or pleading ever convinced me to spare the life of a traitor?" Santana asked, and her grin was wider than Sam had ever seen it.

The soothsayer's smile fell, and his hand shook slightly as he tossed the stones again. They all landed blank-side up.

"What does that mean?" Santana asked, the smile still fixed on her face.

"That means 'no', your majesty," the soothsayer said, and his face was petrified.

"_Good_," Santana said, delightedly. "Now, throw the stones again. Throw them high this time."

The soothsayer did as she asked.

"Do you work for my brother?" Santana asked, her eyes cold, the wind whipping her dark hair across her face.

She didn't need the runes. She didn't need to see what they'd say when they landed- she knew they'd land on _yes_. She could tell by the look in his eyes.

She had her knife buried in his stomach before the runes touched the bowl again.

"Clean that up," she muttered in disgust. She didn't seem to be talking to Sam, so he decided to let one of the other men take care of him.

She turned her gaze to him, arching one eyebrow. She scooped up the runes with one hand. "So," she said, tossing them in the air. "Do we continue West?"

xxxxx

Karofsky caught his runes in one fist, unfurling his fingers to examine the symbols carved onto the shards of bone.

He must have liked what he saw, because a slow grin crept across his face before he swept away again, the sound of a whip cracking the air.


	4. Chapter Three

**For those who asked: yes, there was a typo in the last chapter. It should have said "sister" instead of "brother". I'll get around to fixing it eventually, but I'm very busy at the moment!**

**Usual disclaimer about not owning Stardust OR Glee OR Klaine.**

Kurt sighed impatiently. It'd begun to get dark nearly half an hour ago—that had been when Kurt had woken up, at least. By now, it was completely dark and he was wide awake. He'd never understood how humans could sleep at night—that's when things were the most _beautiful_, in his opinion.

Regardless, Blaine should've been back by now. That was the main cause of his worry.

He heard a twig snap, and his head snapped around as he tugged at his chain helplessly. "Blaine, is that you?"

Another twig.

"Who's there?"

Another.

"Blaine, that's not funny," he said, attempting a laugh. It came out like a feeble sort of choking noise. He'd never been a very good liar.

"_Blaine_," he called, and something emerged from the woods.

It wasn't Blaine—it was a unicorn, and in Kurt's opinion that was infinitely better. Not only was it more attractive than Blaine, it also couldn't talk.

It approached him, sniffing around the tree, then hooked its horn underneath the chain and cut through it with the ease of a knife cutting through softened butter.

Kurt's eyes widened, a brilliant smile blooming on his face, and he threw an arm around the unicorn's neck. "Thank you," he murmured, even though he wasn't sure the unicorn could understand him at all. It snorted something in return, and lay down, obviously meaning for Kurt to climb onto its back.

The smile on Kurt's face grew as he climbed onto the unicorn's back, stroking its neck.

The smirk only grew more pronounced as the unicorn trotted away and Kurt imagined the look that would be on Blaine's face when he returned to find Kurt gone.

xxxxx

Karofsky sighed in frustration, then rubbed the knuckles of one hand across the ring that adorned his middle finger on his other hand.

His brothers appeared in it, just as disgusting and _old_ as they had been a day ago. Karofsky smiled to himself.

"Be careful how much magic you use, brother. It's beginning to show," Azimio warned, his eyes examining his brother's body.

"One goat, and a small enchantment. That's hardly over-the-top," Karofsky said derisively, holding up his arms.

"Well, even using the ring will take its toll!" Strando said impatiently, his arms crossing over his chest. "Better you only call on us when you _really_ need us. And use your _runes_ to find the star's location yourself."

"I _used_ them, and it should _be_ here," he said, throwing his hands up. "But now they're just telling me... gibberish."

Both brothers sighed, then looked towards the animal cages.

They selected a small alligator this time, dragging the clawing and scrabbling animal across the table to pin to the surface. Azimio slit the animal down the belly with the knife, and the two bent forward to examine the entrails.

Strando was the first to speak, holding the animal's small intestines gathered in his hands. "It is because you must stay where you are, my brother," he said, a somewhat fanatic smile on his face. "_It is __coming to you_."

"But be warned, Karofsky," Azimio said, threading his fingers through the large intestines and examining them. "Delicacy is needed. Misery has drained its strength. It's barely shining. Make a trap that will ensure its heart is glowing before you cut it out."

xxxxx

Kurt was _gone_.

It took Blaine a second to process it, but when he finally did—_Jesus Christ._

"Kurt!" he called, even though he knew it would be fruitless, even though he knew there would be no response. He sighed, falling down against the very tree Kurt had been chained to hours earlier. There was no telling when Kurt had escaped, or how he'd escaped—Blaine had no idea how far he'd gotten or where he was.

He couldn't believe he'd been so _stupid_, but he also couldn't believe _Kurt_ was being so stupid, too. The world was already a dangerous enough place, and who knew what kind of dangers this world held? Kurt couldn't have known much more about it than Blaine did—after all, watching a world from a safe place millions of miles away was _much_ different than actually _experiencing_ that world.

He sighed, throwing the package of food he'd bought for them on the ground, and staring moodily up at the full moon.

xxxxx

The crossroad he stood at was lonely, but that was perfect. There wasn't another establishment in sight, let alone a town, and that meant the star would _have_ to stop at his.

Karofsky examined the ground in front of him, his lips pursed, mulling over several different courses of action he could take.

The easiest one, of course, would be the inn. But it couldn't be just _him_ running the inn—he'd have to have another—two others, actually, because he needed a daughter. Nobody would trust two men running an inn in the middle of nowhere.

He crouched down beside the two goats, who bleated plaintively at him.

"You will become human," he told them, in an uncharacteristically gentle sort of tone, before touching his fingertips to each of their foreheads.

It was a quick process—the green flame swelled around them, and when it receded, there was a jittery-looking older man, and the same wild-haired farmboy he'd transfigured over a day ago. The man bleated nervously, and Karofsky shot him a look of disgust before turning to the boy.

That wouldn't do. They needed a daughter.

He waved his hand again, somewhat aimlessly, and a pair of breasts sprouted on the chest of the boy, long ginger hair growing to his chest. His features softened to something more feminine—prettier, Karofsky thought, although that wasn't hard because the boy had been an ogre before.

He pulled them both back a ways before pointing his hand at his cart, a jet of green flame streaming from his index finger to the small black carriage until it was consumed in flames.

The process was a bit longer for forming the inn—it appeared from the ground slowly, bending and flexing until it had reached a comfortable size, wherein the flame disappeared to the inside of the building to create the beds and rooms and furniture necessary to pass for an inn.

Once the last of the flames had dissipated and they'd entered the inn, Karofsky turned to look at the two transfigured goats. "You're Billy the innkeeper, I'm your husband, and you're our daughter."

The boy-turned-girl fondled his newly-grown chest a little, fascinated, until Karofsky slapped his hand away.

He twirled his knife between his fingers and smiled, pleased, at his own creations. "Now. Make everything ready. Our special guests will be here soon."

xxxxx

"I mean, who's to say he would've even kept his promise about the candle?" Kurt asked, as if trying to justify his actions to the unicorn. "I refuse to believe there's _nobody_ else down here who can help me."

If he was being honest with himself, he _was_ feeling the slightest bit guilty for just up and fleeing on Blaine like that. He shook the feeling off, though. He didn't have time for guilt. "Going on and on and on, just _Rachel_ this and _Rachel_ that..."

And okay, maybe he was over-exaggerating because Blaine really hadn't been talking about Rachel _that_ much, but Kurt didn't care. Blaine was annoying and short and sort of had almost no backbone, and Kurt didn't want to be around him anymore.

He just _didn't_, okay?

xxxxx

"_Blaine_."

Ordinarily, Blaine would be a little more concerned with a disembodied voice whispering his name, but he was _asleep_. This was clearly just a _dream_.

For a dream, though, the voice was surprisingly persistent.

_"Blaine_."

It was a man's voice, gruff and somehow loving but stern and-

"_Protect my son, Blaine."_

Blaine folded his arms. In his dream he was lying against the same tree he'd been against before he fell asleep, but the sky was glowing brighter than he'd ever seen it glow, and a voice was calling to him. Kurt's _father's_ voice, apparently.

_"Kurt is in grave danger."_ The voice was urgent, and pleading, and Blaine had never been a cruel person. He tried to give some sign that he was listening, that he would help, but he felt frozen.

"_The unicorn came to help him, but now he's headed for a trap."_ The man's voice was gruff, choked-off, like he was trying hard not to cry. "_No star is safe in Lima."_

He could almost _sense_ the hesitation in Kurt's father's silence until the man's voice plowed on, rough but steady.

"_The last to fall was Kurt's mother, four hundred years ago."_

Suddenly, in the darkness of his eyelids appeared a bright light—a rushing, blinding light that faded into the glow of a pretty, auburn-haired young woman with Kurt's eyes and nose.

_"She was captured by the same warlocks who are after Kurt now_."

In his mind, images of three decrepit old men leered, and a chill ran down his spine.

"_They tricked her and cared for her. They brought back her shine and for a while, we all thought we were going to get our queen back. My wife. Kurt's mother."_

Blaine didn't like where this story was going.

"_But when her heart was glowing once more, they cut it from her chest... and ate it."_

It was as if pulling up a dim memory—he saw the knife flash, saw Kurt's mother scream, saw the wicked smile on the face of the warlock.

Bile rose in his throat.

"_There is a coach coming. Whatever you do, you _have_ to get on it. RUN."_

In a second, Blaine's eyes were open and he was on his feet. In the distance, very faintly, came the sound of carriage wheels rattling over uneven ground.

He was off like a shot then, sprinting through the trees in the direction of the road, the sound of rattling wheels growing louder and louder as he drew closer to the dirt path.

He was going to miss the carriage. _God dammit,_ he was going to miss the carriage and Kurt was going to be _killed_ and it was all his fault.

_He couldn't miss_.

He tensed the muscles in his legs, and leapt, mid-stride, towards the coach that was hurtling past.

He ran smack into the side of the carriage.

He fell to the ground, groaning.

A few meters ahead, the coach shuddered to a halt, and the woman driving it swung himself down from the driver's seat, whipping out a sword as she strode over to where Blaine lay on the ground.

Blaine almost _groaned_ when the tip of the sword dug into his throat, because _really_? _Why_?

"If Santana insists on sending an idiotic _boy_ to do a _woman's_ work-" the yellow-haired woman said, her voice fairly dripping condescension.

"No, look, I don't know Santana. I'm unarmed, look, please."

The woman raised an eyebrow, but sheathed her sword.

"Please, let me ride with you," Blaine said, desperately. This was his _only chance_.

The woman's lips pursed; her sneer grew slightly more pronounced as she strode away. "I'm afraid that's impossible. I'm on a quest of enormous importance."

"Well-" Blaine followed her quickly, trying desperately to think fast. "That's—all the more reason to take me with you! Maybe there will come a time when you could use a second pair of hands."

The woman appeared to be mulling it over, so Blaine decided to push his luck even further. "Please. Maybe I was sent to you just as you were sent to me."

"Get on," the woman said, shortly, gathering the reigns to the carriage in one hand.

"Thank you," Blaine beamed, climbing aboard beside her. "My name's Blaine."

She simply looked at him. "Quinn," she said, after a moment.

xxxxx

At some point, it had started pouring. In the beginning, Kurt had tried fruitlessly to protect his hair and clothing (he was fairly certain that the silvery cloth he was wearing was silk, or whatever the magical equivalent of that was), but had given up when he'd realized it was a lost cause.

Currently, he was draped over the neck of the unicorn, tracing patterns in the rivulets of water running down the horse's body. He was so focused on this mundane activity that he almost missed the noise. It sounded like something creaking—a wagon's wheels, maybe, or something like hinges on a door. Maybe it was someone who could help him.

He sat bolt upright on the horse.

It was an inn, he saw immediately, and the source of the creaking noise was a sign, swinging from a tall post by the road.

"There," he whispered, and the unicorn obeyed, trotting towards the inn.

He left the unicorn by the front door, then peered through the slightly foggy windows before tapping on the door, hesitantly. The inn was a lot quieter than he'd expected for this time at night, and a lot emptier. There was nobody in the dining area nor the living area—the only person he could see, in fact, was a man standing with his back to the door. He turned when Kurt tapped again, and rushed to the door.

"You'll have to excuse me if you've knocked more than once, I simply couldn't hear you over the noise of this wretched weather," he said, gesturing for Kurt to come inside. "You look miserable, sir. We have many accommodations we can offer you—food, drink, a warm bed, and plenty of hot water for a bath. Yes?"

"Thank you, that's very kind of you," Kurt said, slowly, allowing the man to lay a hand on his arm as he was led inside. The man's voice was warm, to be sure, but there was something slightly odd about his eyes—like maybe he wasn't used to being quite so kind to someone.

Karofsky eyed the boy as he limped past—he hadn't expected the star to be a male, but there was simply nobody else it could be. The boy had the same eyes as the one they'd killed four hundred years ago—he was wearing clothing of the same material. And he was _limping—_that would have to be fixed before he took care of the thing. He needed his heart glowing before he cut it out.

"So how do you take your bath?" he asked, heading over to the empty pot over the fire and quickly conjuring up some stew to stir. "Warm? Hot? Or boil-a-lobster?"

"I honestly don't know," Kurt said, a politely puzzled smile on his face. He looked hesitantly at the silent girl sitting beside him—she hadn't said a word since he'd arrived, merely stared at him discomfortingly.

"Then I can choose for you," the man said, turning around to hold out a hand to shake. "My name's David."

"My name is Kurt," Kurt said, after a moment's hesitation, and took the man's hand.

It was odd, because it was _at that exact moment_, when he shook his hand, that all the pain seemed to be sucked from his leg. It was peculiar beyond belief.

"Why don't you get settled into the bath in the other room, and I'll have my husband take your horse to the stable. Billy?"

His husband, who was chewing on a rag, spit it out and leapt up onto the surface of the bar. David sighed, like this was something he was used to but didn't necessarily like. Billy trotted out the door.

"Now. How about getting out of that wet clothing?"

xxxxx

"So what's your story?" Blaine asked.

Quinn spared him a brief glance before turning back to stare ahead. "I don't have a story."

"Everyone has a story," Blaine said, lowering his voice into a more convincing tone. "Come on. What's this quest of enormous importance?"

Quinn shot him a wary look.

"Look, I'm not going to sabotage your quest," Blaine assured her, patting her arm. "I only wanted a ride with you because I'm looking for a friend of mine. He wandered off by himself, but—this land isn't familiar to him, and I'm afraid he'll get himself into trouble."

Quinn examined him for a very brief moment, then turned her eyes back to the road. "You're not familiar with this land, either."

The fact that she could tell that so easily just by looking at him should've scared him, but it somehow didn't. "It's the hair, isn't it?"

"It's the hair," Quinn agreed.

They rode on in silence for a bit longer, and Blaine was about to open his mouth to try asking about her quest once more when she spoke.

"I'm a princess."

"_Really?_"

"Surprised?" Quinn asked, a biting tone to her voice.

"Actually, I'm not," Blaine said, clearly surprising _her_. "I mean, you're clearly beautiful enough to be one. Although beauty isn't everything."

"Yes, well, apparently beauty isn't enough to win the crown, or I would've had it in the bag," she said, almost snappishly.

He merely sat patiently, in silence.

"I'm looking for a stone," she admitted, twirling the reigns around her wrist. "The Lima ruby. If I can find it first, I get to be Queen of Lima."

"And you think you'd be a good Queen?"

"Better than Lauren or Santana," she said, her face pinched.

"I don't dispute," Blaine said, smiling gently, and Quinn's face softened.

xxxxx

"How are you feeling?" David asked, holding out a robe as Kurt climbed from the bath, looking away politely.

"Much better, thank you," Kurt said, somewhat shyly. "The warm water did me a world of good, actually."

"And your leg? Any better?"

"It's extraordinary," Kurt began, "but it actually felt better the moment I walked in the door."

"You seem happier, too," David hedged.

Kurt felt a slight twinge of annoyance at the tinge of nosiness the questions had taken on, but it faded quickly. "I am happier, actually. Less troubled."

"Mmm, nothing like a cheery home and friendly faces to warm the cockles of your heart," David said, with a too-broad grin.

Kurt knotted the tie to his bathrobe, and followed David up the stairs to the room at the very top. He pushed open the door and gestured Kurt inside.

"Now," he said, turning down the bed. "I'm only a simple innkeeper's husband, but I'm told I have a healer's hands. I'd be glad to give you a massage."

"What's... a massage?" Kurt asked, hesitantly.

"What's a-" the laugh the man let out made Kurt feel _uneasy_, for some reason, although he pushed the feelings aside. "Never had a massage? Bless my soul."

The expression sounded foreign on his lips. Kurt's unease grew.

"Nothing like a massage to send you off into the finest and deepest night's sleep," David continued, not seeming to notice Kurt's discomfort.

"I do have trouble sleeping at night," Kurt said, clearing his throat.

"Lie on your back, then," David said.

Kurt paused, then did so, somewhat warily. He couldn't pinpoint exactly _what_ it was about the man that was making him so wary, except maybe that he seemed almost... fake. _Too_ friendly.

The star was glowing again, Karofsky noted with satisfaction. Not as brightly as the other one had glowed, but brightly enough. _His_ heart would last them for quite some time.

He smiled comfortingly at the star, appreciating the gentle curve of his nose and cheeks and the sharp angles of his cheekbones (really, if he hadn't been a star...), then reached into the drawer for the bottle of massage oil he'd conjured up while they were walking up the stairs.

Right beside it sat a long, thin knife.

Just as his hand had clasped around the handle, a pounding began on the door below.

xxxxx

"_Service!_" Quinn bellowed, in a decidedly un-ladylike way.

"Maybe we should carry on, try the next inn," Blaine called to her from where he was standing, holding the horses' reigns. "Especially if the stone is as close as your runes say it is." _He_ could barely hear her over the rain, and he was only a few meters away from her.

"Come over here and yell for me," Quinn said, peevishly. "You've a much deeper voice than me."

"Come hold the horses, then," Blaine said, and they traded places.

Blaine pounded on the door. "_Hello?_"

xxxxx

Kurt quirked an eyebrow at Karofsky, who tried to smile as comfortingly as possible. "I'll be right back just after I deal with this customer."

xxxxx

Blaine was about to give up, suggest once more that they go to the next inn, when the latch was lifted and the door opened, by a white-haired man.

"At last," Quinn said, striding forward importantly and passing the reigns off to Blaine. "We require accommodation. Please help my friend take the horses to the stables."

The man _bleated_ at Quinn, and she blinked in confusion as he brushed past her.

She shrugged, passing him to head into the inn.

"Hello?" she called, but as no one answered, she ventured further into the large room. She sighed upon sight of a massive bath tub sitting in the middle of the room. She could use that—later, when it was full of water she was sure was clean.

The door swung open behind her, and she spun around.

Lauren, somehow miraculously dry, stood with her arms folded in the doorway.

"_What are you doing here_?" Quinn hissed, her eyes darting around the room wildly. Still no sign of the innkeeper's wife.

"Lucy," Lauren said with a smirk, striding into the room to throw her cloak over the chair. She begun stripping out of her clothes, without a single thought of modesty.

Quinn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I told you never to call me that."

"It's your name, isn't it?" Lauren asked, faux-innocently, as she lowered herself into the bathtub. Unlike Quinn, she'd never been squeamish around the unknown.

"You disgust me," Quinn snapped, folding her arms angrily. "Rather than finding your own way to the stone, you choose instead to take the easy route and follow in my footsteps. You're dishonest."

Lauren snorted. "That's sort of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it, princess?"

_Princess_ was Quinn's official title, so she had no idea how Lauren made it sound like a slur, something to be ashamed of.

"I'm going to go find an empty room for myself," Quinn said, stiffly, "seeing as the accommodations in this inn are less than satisfactory. Will you follow me _there_, too?"

"No, I'm quite enjoying this bath," Lauren said, with a taunting smile. "You can go on."

Quinn huffed, spinning on her heel, and marched up the stairs. On the way up, she passed a lithe and beautiful boy wearing a robe who was just coming out of a room at the top of the stairs.

"The innkeeper's husband, I presume?" Quinn asked.

The boy's eyes widened and he stared at her, silently.

"There's another guest downstairs who requires your service," she said, shortly. "May I have this room?" She gestured to the room he'd just come out of.

He blinked at her. "I—no. That one is occupied. Try the one beside it?"

"Thank you." She swept inside, and closed the door with a click behind her.

Kurt shook his head, continuing down the stairs. What a very odd woman, and what odd assumptions she made.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, only to see that the woman had been correct. There was another guest who required service—a guest who had already helped herself to the same bathtub Kurt had been in earlier. Presumably the same water, as well. Kurt arched an eyebrow.

"Ah, there you are." The woman's eyes were closed, so it took Kurt a moment to realize she was talking to him. "I'm accustomed to better service, but you're awake now, and that's all that matters. Prepare your best room."

"I'll thank you not to bother the guests, ma'am." David's voice came sharply from across the room, and he strode into view, carrying a goblet on a tray. "_I_ am the owner of this establishment. Glass of wine?"

Lauren visibly hesitated, then shook her head. "No. Until my sisters are dead, I have vowed only to drink my own wine. Although I passed a man as I came in who was helping your husband lock the horses in the stable—he may be glad of a drop, even if I don't know who he is."

Kurt's forehead wrinkled. Could it possibly be-?

No. No, it had to be Quinn's husband or companion.

"Certainly," David said, passing the goblet off to his daughter. She left without a word.

"Your best room, please," Lauren said, rubbing her hands together.

"Of course," David said, a too-warm smile on his face, before he headed off back up the stairs.

"I'm sorry I presumed," Lauren said to Kurt.

"Apology accepted, although I'm not quite sure how you mistook me for an innkeeper's husband," Kurt said, folding his arms.

Lauren let out a laugh. "Feisty, this one! I like it."

Kurt snorted.

xxxxx

Idiot, _idiot_ woman, showing up and ruining everything. Karofsky tried not to run up the stairs, tried not to cause a commotion. He was in the drawer beside the bed immediately, the long, sharp knife in his hands.

xxxxx

The door to the stable burst open, causing Blaine to jump, startled.

A girl was standing there, a few years younger than him. She was holding out a tray with a wineglass on it, her eyes slightly bug-eyed at him.

"Thank you," he said warmly, taking the glass. "That's so kind, thank you very much." He began to lift the wineglass to his lips, then lowered it again. "My name's Blaine—what's yours?

"Jacob," said the girl, in an unmistakeably masculine voice, before walking away.

The glass slipped from Blaine's fingers, shattering on the ground.

xxxxx

Karofsky was out of the room in an instant, the knife gripped in his hand.

xxxxx

"And it's the most well-known in Lima, so they say," Lauren said, flicking at the water lazily.

"How nice for you," Kurt said, politely, although his tone made it apparent he didn't find it nice at all. "If you'll excuse me-"

"Hold on a moment-" Lauren said, sitting up straighter in the bath. "That necklace you're wearing—it can't be-"

Kurt looked down at the stone.

"Come here, let me see it," Lauren urged.

xxxxx

Smoke billowed from the liquid, emitting noxious fumes and a hissing noise.

They tried to _poison _him.

For a moment, it was all Blaine could focus on.

Then—_Quinn. _

xxxxx

"You have _no idea_ what you're meddling with," Lauren growled, her arm outstretched, water sloshing over the edge of the tub. "I am Lauren, first-born of Lima, and I _demand_ that you bring it to me. Bring it to me now!"

The door burst open, and Blaine ran in, eyes wild. "Princess Quinn! Don't touch anything they give you! They tried to-"

By the time he took in that it _wasn't_ Princess Quinn, it was too late. Karofsky had drawn the blade of his knife across the woman's throat. Blaine watched, horrified, as the blood gushed out _blue._

Blaine was at Kurt's side before Kurt could even blink. "_Are you all right?"_ he asked, grabbing the other man by the arms.

Kurt blinked. "I-"

"Billy!" Karofsky screamed.

The transfigured goat poked its head over the bar counter.

"_Get him_," Karofsky commanded furiously, pointing a shaking finger at Blaine.

Eyes widening in horror, Blaine pushed Kurt behind him, spreading out his arms to protect him.

It wasn't necessary. As Billy charged at them, the unicorn Kurt had traveled burst through the doors, and Billy was distracted. He charged straight at the unicorn, head tilted forward.

The _crack_ of their skulls colliding was cringe-worthy.

The corpse of a small, white goat hit the back wall, sliding to the floor with a _thud_.

Karofsky yelled in frustration and rage, and pointed a finger at the unicorn. He was enveloped in green flame, tongues of fire that licked up and over the horse's body.

"Time to go," Blaine whispered, horrified.

As if he'd heard him, Karofsky turned to shoot another jet of green flame to the door, blocking their only way out.

They were trapped, backed against a wall.

"The burning golden heart of a star at peace is so much better than your frightened little heart," Karofsky said, advancing upon them, blue-stained knife in hand. "Even so, better than no heart at all."

"Kurt?" Blaine said, quietly, not moving his eyes from the approaching warlock.

He felt Kurt's arms tighten around his waist.

"Hold me tight and think of home."

And Kurt's face tucked into Blaine's shoulder from behind as Blaine reached into his pocket, digging out the last stub of the Babylon candle, and he thrust it into the green flames beside them.

They vanished just as Karofsky reached them, and drove his knife into the brickwork where they'd just been. The knife blade shattered.

He screamed at the top of his lungs.


	5. Chapter Four

**As always, I apologize for any typos/grammatical errors, etc that I may have missed. I have a beta, but as always, even together we can't catch _everything_. I hope you enjoy anyway!**

**Usual spiel about not owning Glee or Stardust. Additional moping about how much I wish I did.**

**Chapter Four**

They were soaked again in an instant. Blaine blinked against the water that was clouding his eyes. It was pouring wherever they were, and his feet were soaked and immersed in something vaguely soggy, and his hand was still clinging tightly to the arm that Kurt had wrapped around his waist.

They were standing on a _cloud_.

"What the hell did you do?" he yelled. He could barely hear himself over the torrential downpour.

"What did _I_ do?" Kurt shrieked. "What did _you_ do? _'Think of home'_? That was a _great_ plan! You thought of _your_ home and I thought of _mine_ and now we're halfway between the two!"

"Well, you _stupid cow!" _Blaine bellowed, throwing his arms up. "What did you think of _your_ home for?"

"You just said _home_!" Kurt yelled, slapping Blaine's arms away from him. "If you wanted me to think of _your_ home, you should have _said so_!"

"Some _crazy man_ was going to cut your heart out, and you wanted more specific instructions? Perhaps you'd like it in writing! Or a diagram, maybe!"

Kurt was going to reply, really. He had the _perfect_ cutting comeback. But he was rudely interrupted by the event of a net falling on his and Blaine's heads.

They were hoisted onto the deck of a ship—or at least, that's what it appeared to be. Faceless men in dark, rubbery jackets that gave the appearance of glaring forebodingly down at the two men still tangled in the net.

"Look, Captain Puckerman!" called one of the closest, taking off his goggles to examine the two of them. "Got ourselves a little bonus!"

Blaine's eyes actually widened when he realized that it was a _girl._ In all the fairytales he'd ever read, he'd never once encountered a female pirate.

The group of people parted, a tall figure pushing through them to crouch down in front of them.

"A couple of lightning marshals," another provided—a male's voice, this time.

The man—Captain Puckerman—pushed back his hood, pushing his goggles up. He squinted at them. His face was tanned, the only hair on his head a thin stripe over the top of his skull.

"They don't look like lightning marshals to me," he told the first woman who had spoken, still scrutinizing their faces.

"Why else would anyone be up here in the middle of a storm?" one of the men yelled.

"Use your brain, David," Captain Puckerman snapped. "Maybe for the same _damn_ reason we are! What's your name?"

Blaine just gaped at him.

"Maybe a night in the brig will loosen their lips," Captain Puckerman said, waving a hand. "Take them there."

"You heard him!" the first woman called, waving at two men. "Take them to the brig! And the rest of you—back to work! We've got lightning to catch!"

They were tied back to back, strapped into a set of apparently immovable chairs in the center of the room, and left there by the crew.

"They're going to kill us, aren't they?" Kurt asked quietly. His voice was impressively calm.

"I don't know," Blaine admitted, hanging his head.

"It's kind of funny," Kurt said, with a small laugh. "I used to watch people have adventures, you know. I envied them. I wished I could, too."

Blaine tried to smile. "Have you ever heard the expression 'be careful what you wish for'?"

Kurt's voice immediately turned sharp. "What, so ending up with my heart cut out, that'll serve me right, then?"

"No-" Blaine said, his voice softening, "No, no, that's not what I meant."

There was a brief silence, where each tried to pretend they couldn't hear the other sniffling.

"Look, I admire you dreaming," Blaine offered, after a moment. "Choir boy like me? I could never have imagined an adventure this big in order to wish for it. I just thought I'd find some lump of celestial rock, and take it home, and that would be it."

"And you got me instead," Kurt said, a small smile crossing his face.

They both laughed for a little bit, even though it wasn't really funny. Maybe they just needed something to laugh about, to get their minds off things.

"If there's one thing I've learned from my years of watching Earth," Kurt said, after a moment, "it's that people aren't what they seem. That man wasn't the friendly innkeeper he pretended to be. He may have worked in an inn, but he most certainly _wasn't_ an innkeeper. And Blaine, you're much more than just a choirboy. You saved my life."

He allowed his hand, just momentarily, to brush over Blaine's.

To his surprise, Blaine's fingers curled around his, holding his hand there.

xxxxx

Santana stared down at her sister's body.

She tried to feel a shred of remorse. She actually did. But for some reason, she simply couldn't muster it up.

Lauren _deserved_ it.

"Well, well, well," she said, softly. Sam was staring at Lauren's body, the corners of his mouth turned down. He'd always been softer than her.

"Does she have the stone?" she asked him, sharply.

He looked up, his eyes hard. "I'm not checking," he said.

She rolled her eyes, snapping her fingers. One of her men strode over, clasping his hands behind his back. "Your majesty?"

"Check and make sure she doesn't have the stone," she snapped.

The man hurried to do so.

She sensed the presence of someone else just before a hand wrapped around her ankle, and she flung herself to the ground, drawing her knife in one smooth motion and holding it to the throat of the man who'd been hidden beneath an overturned, abandoned cart.

_"Where's my stone_?" she hissed.

He shook his head, whimpering pitifully. "I don't-"

She shook him a little.

"Oh—oh—the woman—your sister—I heard her speak of a stone. _Yeah_. The boy had it. The boy had it."

Santana's brow furrowed. "What boy?" What would a boy want with her stone?

"I dunno. A boy. He got away. Because this was a trap set up for him, but your sister, she come just straight into it."

"A _trap_?" Santana echoed. "Set by whom?"

"A man you should pray you'll never meet," the boy whispered fearfully. "He's—he's gone. He took your sister's carriage."

"Not here, madam," one of her men called, pulling his hand from the tub in which her sister's body still rested and wiping it off, a semi-disgusted look upon his face. Santana ignored him.

"This man wanted _my_ stone?" Santana asked sharply, her knife blade digging even more deeply into his throat.

The boy choked, clawing a little at Santana's arm. She didn't move.

"No," he gasped, finally. "He wanted the boy's heart. He said the boy was a star and he wanted to cut out his heart and-"

"_Eat it_," Santana said, releasing the boy suddenly. He slumped to the ground, rubbing his jaw. "Oh my God." She stood up, turning to face the rest of her men. "Do you have any idea what this means?"

They all shook their heads, particularly dim-witted expressions on their faces.

"Everlasting life," Santana breathed, too elated to even poke fun at their stupidity. "Cannibalism isn't my style, but can you imagine—Queen. Forever."

She chose to ignore the look of horror on Sam's face.

xxxxx

The carriage didn't have a driver.

Actually, more accurately, it did have a driver. He was just seated in the most uncustomary of seats—_inside_ the cabin of the carriage, rather than outside.

Karofsky sighed. There was no point in conserving his magic anymore—he was already beginning to look haggard and old once more. It was only a matter of time until he was back to his previous state. _He needed that star_.

He rubbed the ring, frantically. "Ask again," he barked at his brothers.

"We _have_ asked again, and the answer is still the same," Strando snapped. "He is airborne!"

"Well, he can't _stay_ that way forever, inform me as _soon_ as he touches the ground," Karofsky said stiffly, folding his arms. "_Immediately,_ do you understand?"

"_Watch your tongue, brother!_" Azimio growled. "It is _you_ and not _we_ who've lost him!"

"Lost him _and_ broken the knife," Strando added. "Even if you capture it, how will you kill it?"

"Maybe you should come back now, and one of us will set out in your place," Azimio suggested, a sneer curling across his face.

"Don't be _absurd_," Karofsky snapped back. "I'll bring him home, and deal with him there. Make sure everything is ready for our arrival."

xxxxx

The sky had lightened—the worst of the storm was over. Still, nobody had come for them.

Kurt shifted uncomfortably against Blaine's back.

"Tell me about Rachel," he said, regretting it almost as soon as the words had left his mouth.

Blaine's brow furrowed. "Well, she—she-" He thought for a minute. "There's nothing more to tell you."

Kurt's lips pressed together. "Because from the small amount I know of love... I've been told it's unconditional. I've never been in love, but... my father and I are all that each other has, and I've never placed a value on his love for me. Love isn't something you can _buy_."

"Hold on," Blaine said, as it sunk in. "This wasn't—it wasn't about me _buying_ her love. It was a way for me to prove how I felt, that I was ready to marry her. That I _wanted_ to marry her."

"Ah," Kurt said, his voice still somewhat skeptical. "And what's _she_ doing to prove how _she_ feels about you?"

"Well-" Blaine argued instinctively, then stopped.

Both of them smiled to themselves, Blaine a little sheepishly, Kurt a little triumphantly.

"Look, Kurt, you'll understand when you meet her. All right?"

Honestly, though, he knew Kurt wouldn't. Kurt wouldn't understand why Blaine had to fight so hard for Rachel's attention when Jesse got it so easily. He wouldn't understand _why_ Blaine wanted to marry her so badly, because he wouldn't see what he normally saw when he looked down at love on earth.

"Provided we don't get murdered by pirates first, of course," he added, to take the tension away from the atmosphere.

"Mmm, murdered by pirates..." Kurt mused, his voice low and humorous. "Heart torn out and eaten... meet Rachel... can't quite decide which sounds _more __fun_."

"Courage," Blaine said, grinning.

"I hated you at first, you know," Kurt said softly.

Blaine snorted in a rather undignified way. "Yes. I got that message very clearly from the moment we met."

"Okay, I didn't _hate_ you," Kurt amended. "But I really wanted to."

"Why?" Blaine asked, before he could stop himself.

Kurt hummed a little. "I was angry at the world, actually, because believe it or not, the sky is a much nicer place to be than down here. I was angry at _myself_ for not paying attention and being knocked out of the sky. I was angry at my father because he _let _me be knocked down—oh, I know he didn't, really," he added, when Blaine cleared his throat. "It just felt that way, to me."

"So you were mad at everything else and you took it out on me?" Blaine asked, lightly.

Kurt half-sighed. "You were there. It was easy."

"Of course it was easy. I immediately put a chain on you as soon as I figured out what you were." Blaine's voice sounded abashed.

"But you saved my life," Kurt said softly. "It doesn't matter if you only did it because you need me in order to marry Rachel. You still did it. You could have left me there and saved yourself, but you didn't."

"Fat lot of help any of that did, though," Blaine couldn't help but add. "Look where we are now."

Kurt clicked his tongue. "Well. Maybe they'll be sympathetic to our plight?"

They were both silent for a few moments longer.

"It wasn't, you know," Blaine said, after a moment.

"Wasn't... what?" Kurt asked, after Blaine made no move to clarify.

"Wasn't just because I want to marry Rachel," Blaine said. "I—I like you, Kurt. I like having you around."

Kurt's stomach fluttered, even after he told it sternly not to.

"We're—we're friends, right?"

The uncertainty in Blaine's voice was in _no_ way adorable, and Kurt told himself this. "I'd say after that—yes. There are some things two people _can't_ go through without ending up friends, and being attacked by an insane warlock intent on cutting out hearts and eating them has to be one of them."

"I'm glad you're here," Blaine said, softly, and Kurt couldn't help but feel the same way.

xxxxx

"We've located the sky vessel," Azimio announced.

Karofsky raised an eyebrow.

"It's headed North, for the port town on Mount McKinley. And you are no longer the only one seeking the star. There's someone following your tracks!"

"A witch? A warlock?"

"A princess. And she's catching you up! Get a move on."

xxxxx

Santana was clever. Cleverer than Lauren had been, in any case, and Lauren had been _smart_.

Quinn was left with nothing. The warlock had taken her carriage and Lauren's horses. She was left with her riding cloak and dress and the purse that stayed tucked inside her bodice at all times. She didn't even have _shoes_ on.

Her eyes had snapped open the instant she'd heard Blaine's voice shouting below, and once she'd smelled smoke, she hadn't wasted a moment. She'd taken the stool sitting at the bedside and thrown it through the window, which shattered instantly—flimsy workmanship. She'd climbed down the trellis, staring wide-eyed when a beam of light flew from the inn and the warlock screamed furiously from within.

She'd watched from the safety of the woods as the warlock took everything he desired and left Lauren dead in the bathtub.

Then she'd fled.

The stone was no longer worth it. Not when she knew that someone like that warlock was after their stone—or at least, after them.

She kept thinking about Blaine.

She hoped he'd survived.

xxxxx

Captain Puckerman threw open the window in the brig and inhaled the sweet air. It always smelled better, the higher up they were.

"_So_," he growled, spinning to face them. "This is the part where you two tell me who you are and why the hell you're up here." He jerked his head at Kurt. "Or I'll snap his fingers one by one like dried twigs."

The crew, listening intently outside the door, laughed.

"My name is Blaine Anderson," Blaine said calmly, straining his neck to make eye contact. "This is my—partner, Kurt."

"Your partner?" Captain Puckerman said, in a mock-pitying sort of tone. "Aw, but this little princess is a little too pretty to belong to a dwarf like you. It's share and share alike aboard my ship!"

Kurt's head whipped towards the door at the sound of the jeering crew, the expression on his face terrified.

"If you dare even touch him-" Blaine said, feeling his stomach twist up because what _perversion—_or maybe, no, that's _not_ why he was filled with such dread, but he didn't have time to think on it, because the Captain had Blaine's jaw in his hand, and was staring him in the eye, cold and calculating.

"You may think you're showing some sort of bravery in front of your little friend," Captain growled, "but if you talk back to me again, I'll feed your tongue to the dogs, you _impertinent little pup_."

"Sir-" Blaine pleaded.

"Better. But still interrupting." Captain Puckerman turned away from them to pace once more. "Let's see. A hanging's always good for morale. Maybe we'll watch you dance a gallows jig!" He paused, listening to the crew laugh and cheer outside with a slight smile on his face. "Or maybe I'll just tip you over the side and have done with it!"

He crouched down until he was once again eye-level with Blaine and Kurt. "It's a very long way down. Plenty of time to think about your pathetically boring and short lives."

"Please," Blaine said, feeling Kurt's hand tighten on his. "Please, we're just trying to get home. Back to a place called Wall, where I come from."

"What did you say?" Captain Puckerman asked, freezing.

"I said we were trying to get home, to Wall." Blaine enunciated, and nearly screamed as a dagger flew to his throat.

Captain Puckerman was inches from his face. "That's one lie too many, fairy-boy."

"_What's he saying_?" Wes hissed, from the other side of the wall.

Mercedes waved him off, her eyes widening as she pressed her ear as closely to the door as was possible. At the sound of her Captain's roar, she pulled away. "On the deck, on the deck, go, go, go-!"

"_Big mistake, Mr. Anderson, and the last one you'll ever make!_"

They reached the deck just in time to see a body flying out the window of the brig, sinking down into the clouds and disappearing.

Captain Puckerman looked up.

The crew pulled back immediately.

_"_No! No! You _brute_! You _murderer_!" Kurt's voice was hoarse from screaming as he was dragged across the deck by the Captain.

"Get _up_!" Puckerman barked, and Kurt was stunned into silence by a sharp blow dealt to his cheekbone by a deceptively innocent-looking blond woman.

"I'm taking the boy to my cabin," the Captain called, "and mark my words, anyone who disturbs me for the next few hours will be getting the same treatment."

Mercedes looked taken aback, slightly disgusted, and slightly offended. "What, you'll-" she made a dirty gesture with her hands.

"No, you stupid bitch, I'll throw _you_ over the side as well!"

Mercedes made a rude gesture at him, but looked relieved. "Oh, yeah," she said, and moved to shut the door and stand in front of it, throwing a conspiratorial wink at the Captain as she did.

_"Get in there, princess_," they heard Puckerman yell, and the door slammed shut.

Mercedes shot an unimpressed glance at the surrounding company, who were all waiting, staring eagerly at the door. "Captain's busy. So should you be."

xxxxx

"So," said Captain Puckerman, turning from the doors to look at a grinning Blaine and Kurt. "That went well, I think."

Blaine, feeling Kurt's eyes on him, crossed his arms self-consciously; he'd had to give his clothing to Captain Puckerman (quickly), and was dressed only in his underclothes.

"Now, tell me the news about England." Captain Puckerman pulled out a chair and sat down, straddling it. "The girls there still prettier than the ones over here?"

"You must've been fortunate enough to see some of the good ones," Blaine said without thinking, and was startled when Kurt snorted in agreement.

Captain Puckerman laughed, slapping Blaine on the back. "I'm glad I didn't kill you."

Blaine looked like he wasn't quite sure what to say back to that.

"I can't believe your crew fell for that. Where on earth did you get that mannequin?" Kurt asked, looking utterly bemused.

Captain Puckerman waved a dismissive hand. "It works every time. They're idiots. I use a combination of intimidation and fear to build my rep without ever having to knock someone's lights out. Ever tried to get bloodstains out of white leather? _Nightmare_."

Both Kurt and Blaine just blinked at him.

"We're going to have to disguise you," Captain Puckerman said, waving a hand at Blaine.

"Captain Puckerman-"

The Captain snorted. "Call me Puck."

"Puck—I still don't understand how your crew won't recognize me."

"Blaine, when I'm done, your own mother won't recognize you." At the mention of Blaine's mother, Puck got a strange sort of leer on his face that Blaine was afraid to ask about. "We only have two hours before we make port, so this'll have to be fast. First-"

He stood up, twisting one of the lamps that lined the walls of the cabin. A door opened beside it, revealing a massive closet full of clothing.

"You have to look the part," he said, shrugging. "I kind of have a thing for costumes."

He thrust an outfit at Blaine—breeches, a vest, a white collared shirt, and _oh, _a long white coat that Blaine had to pretend he wasn't salivating over. It was spectacular.

"You're going to want to go navy," Puck told Kurt, gruffly, as if lowering his voice into an even more manly tone might excuse the fact that he was giving out fashion advice.

"Oh, I'm fine," Kurt said, politely, although he was itching to rifle through what looked like a truly amazing collection of clothing. He'd _always_ been envious about that one thing when looking down at Earth—human clothing.

"Princess, you're wearing a bathrobe," Puck said, sarcastically.

Kurt didn't protest a second time. He hurried to the racks of clothing.

Puck shoved Blaine into a small, curtained-off partition in the closet. "Now. England. I want to hear everything."

"But... you're not from England," Blaine called over the curtain, pushing his head through the neck of the shirt.

"Sadly, no, but I heard the stories all the time. People told me they were myths, but I had to believe it because it sounded a hell of a lot better than what I had over here."

"So you were here looking over there," Blaine said, a smile in his voice.

"Being a pirate gets boring fast," Puck replied, which wasn't really an answer, but Blaine would take it.

He stepped out from the curtain, clothed in the garments, and Puck examined him critically for a moment.

"Your hair," he grimaced. "It's got to go."

Blaine's hand flew to his head. "What's wrong with my hair?" he asked defensively.

Kurt poked his head out from behind a rack of clothing. "It looks like it's been plastered to your head. How much animal fat does it take for you to get it like that?"

"Princess is right, Anderson," Puck said, grinning. "You need a new look."

He sat Blaine in a chair, draping an apron around him as he examined his hair. "Kurt's probably better at this than I am."

"Happy to help," Kurt said, and the tone of his voice made Blaine twist up to scowl at him. Kurt smiled back, angelically.

"Tilt your head back," Kurt said softly, and Blaine complied.

Puck began talking again as water rushed over Blaine's head and Kurt began to scrub at his hair.

"I tried to make my father proud, you know, because he was ruthless and bad and feared everywhere. But I just wanted to make music, and I'm not cut out for the job. So I just worked on getting a killer reputation of ruthless pirate and cold-blooded killer, and took on the name Puckerman for the intimidation factor. It goes back to my Jew heritage—shalom—but my enemies and crew are thinking 'Pucker! Man!'"

"That doesn't even make sense-" Kurt tried to say, but Blaine had already begun talking.

"I don't understand that," he said, stifling a small moan because Kurt had just done something with his fingernails against his scalp that felt _amazing, _for some reason. "Surely it would make you happier to just be yourself? Why fight to be accepted by people you don't actually want to be like?"

"Yeah," Kurt said, sarcastically. "Why would anyone do that to himself?"

Blaine felt his neck heat.


	6. Chapter Five

**Halfway there! (Kind of). There will be 5 more chapters of this story.**

**(I don't claim to own Glee or Stardust)**

**Chapter Five**

The ship made port on the side of Mount McKinley three hours later.

Puck threw out his arm as Blaine started to get up.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, frowning. "You can't come with us. You need to be here when we get back."

"But—Kurt?" he said, uncertainly.

"Has to come with us, too," the Captain said, raising his eyebrow. "The crew thinks he's a prisoner."

Kurt lent a backwards glance and a quick smile to Blaine (the first truly kind smile Blaine had received from Kurt) before following the Captain off the ship.

It all seemed so very... _illegal_, Kurt thought as the first mate (Mercedes, he heard someone call her) opened a door in the side of a shoddy looking shop. The door was marked "Terri" in dainty, loopy letters that contrasted almost laughably with the look of the rest of the building.

Mercedes locked the door behind them, which only added to Kurt's suspicions towards the legality of the whole ordeal.

Terri was a somewhat weasel-y looking woman, with a deceptively sweet smile but a hard gaze. She opened the container of lightning, a wrinkled nose instantly indicative of her displeasure.

"It doesn't seem very fresh," she said, closing the container and folding her arms.

"Shall I give you a taste, Terri?" Puck asked, a roguish grin on his face as he lifted a slim leather tube from his shoulder.

"No, no. Oh, there you go anyway," she said in exasperation, as Puck slid open the tube and shot a thin jet of lightning at a rack of merchandise on the wall. Something large and metallic-sounding clattered to the floor.

"Like _those_ are cheap," Terri snapped, but made no move to pick whatever it was up.

"I think it's still crackling, very much alive, very fresh," Puck said, handing the tube of lightning over to the blond-haired woman Kurt believed to be named Brittany. "So, name your best price."

Terri pursed her lips. "For 10,000 bolts?"

"Ten thousands bolts of finest quality grade A," Puck corrected.

"_Yes_," Terri said, "but it's difficult to ship, isn't it? Difficult to store? If I get the revenue men in here sniffing around... best offer, 150 guineas."

"Ladies, put the merchandise back on board and prepare to sail," Puck said, gesturing to the lightning. Mercedes bent to lift the container just as Terri spoke.

"One minute. Hold on. One-sixty."

"Seeing as I'm feeling generous today," Puck said (someone behind him cracked their knuckles threateningly—Kurt wasn't sure who), "I'll settle for two hundred."

"Two hundred?" Terri said, in disbelief. "Okay, you're having a laugh. Has he been sailing up where the air's too thin?" she asked, addressing the crew and Kurt.

Kurt stared at her, both eyebrows raised, his mouth pressed tight.

"You're being very rude," Puck murmured.

"Not anymore," Terri said, lifting her chin defensively.

"Two hundred." Puck folded his arms.

"One-eighty," Terri countered.

"Two hundred."

"That's not a negotation. I'm changing my number. One-eight-five."

"Did I hear two hundred?"

"From you, you did, yes."

"You said two hundred."

"If I did, you're a ventriloquist."

"Okay, one-nine-five, final offer," Terri said, looking as if she was in physical pain.

Puck reached out to shake Terri's hand. "One-nine-five it is. So with tax, that's—let's see—two hundred."

Terri's forced smile finally fell. "Brilliant. Put it in the back."

As two of the men—Wes and David, if Kurt remembered correctly—moved to take the lightning into the back room, Terri gestured for Puck to follow her.

Kurt followed him immediately, still uncertain about being alone with the crew.

Terri opened her mouth to say something to the Captain, then seemed to notice Kurt. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Kurt opened his mouth, ready to throw out a particularly cutting remark, but Puck shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

Kurt closed his mouth, and settled for walking away with an extra irritated flounce in his step.

"Nosy," Terri said, her nose wrinkling in slight disgust.

xxxxx

"What did you say your name was?" Mercedes asked, smiling kindly at Kurt. She was standing next to the somewhat vacant-looking blond.

He blinked at her for a moment. "Kurt." He hadn't expected any of them to actually be _kind_ to him.

"Mercedes," she said, offering a hand. "This is Brittany."

"I know." he took it. "You're the first mate?"

"I'm the only woman in the crew who hasn't slept with him," she snorted. Brittany nodded, a placid smile on her face.

He arched an eyebrow. "Captain Puckerman gets around?"

"He's slept with most of the men on the ship, too," Mercedes shook her head as Kurt's eyebrows shot up even more. "He's sort of an equal opportunity type of person."

xxxxx

"Have you heard any of these rumors going around about a fallen star?" Terri asked, quietly. "Everyone's been talking about it. You get your hands on one of them, we can shut up shop. Retire. God knows I'd like to. I'm not built to work five days a week."

"Fallen star," Puck repeated.

"Yeah."

His eyes drifted over to where Kurt was standing, immersed in conversation with Mercedes. There was the slightest glow to him—one that wouldn't be noticed by someone who wasn't really looking for it.

He turned back to Terri, and shook his head.

She looked a little disappointed. "Nothing on your travels?"

"No," Puck said, "I haven't heard anything."

"Not even a little sniff about it, down at the market? Everyone's going on about it down there."

"Which market, the market at the wall?" Puck's voice was infused with skepticism. "Terri, you're wasting your time listening to gossip from the kind of pond scum that do their trading down there."

Terri appeared as if she was about to say something.

"Speak of the devil," Puckerman said, as Ditchwater Sue came into view.

"Yeah?" Sue said, eying them both suspiciously. "What were you saying, then?"

"Just what a wonderful woman you are, Sue, how the world wouldn't be the same without you," Puck schmoozed, a sickening smile on his face.

Sue rolled her eyes. "Eat my feces, Puckerman."

"I can see that you two have business to attend to, so my crew and I will be going," Puckerman said politely.

The return to the ship was silent. Kurt walked in between Mercedes and Puck, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the crew and wondering when, exactly, this plan with Blaine was going to unfold.

He didn't have long to wait. He and Mercedes were the first to board the ship, so they were the first to see the well-dressed, confident-looking young man who was reclining against a load of cargo with a smug smile on his face.

"Captain Puckerman," he drawled.

The crew drew their swords.

Puck pulled them back. "Stand down," he scolded, striding forward to wrap an arm around Blaine's shoulders. "Meet my nephew, Blaine Anderson. He'll be joining us for our journey home."

"Uncle," Blaine said, the smirk still present.

"I have something to keep you amused on the way." Puck _leered_, tugging Kurt's arm until he stumbled, catching himself on Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine looked confused by this turn of events, which only made sense.

"Smile, _smile, _Blaine," Kurt hissed, "and wink. Lewdly."

Blaine's face instantly shifted from an expression of confusion into one of arrogance and... oh god, _arousal_, and that expression was simply far too attractive on Blaine's face, and Kurt had to turn away.

The crew dispersed quickly, slapping Blaine on the back and welcoming him aboard, and Kurt and Blaine were left alone.

"That was odd," Blaine managed, and Kurt rolled his eyes.

"You have to at least try to be a little less of a gentleman, Blaine," he said, but his voice wasn't as sharp as he'd have liked it to be. "The men and women on this crew take that as a weakness."

"So being polite is being weak?" Blaine asked, incredulously.

"I like it," Kurt said, quickly. "I like your manners. I like that you're kind and honest and the least manipulative person I've ever met—and that _includes_ my fellow stars. It just isn't appreciated so much in this setting."

There was a moment where their eyes met. There was something soft in Kurt's, something that Blaine couldn't quite understand—something that left him feeling pleasantly warm.

Blaine opened his mouth as if to say something, but Puck clamped a hand down on his shoulder. Blaine hadn't even heard him approach.

"What do you two say to some supper?" he asked, rubbing his hands together. "Roast chicken and something chocolate because the birds on this ship turn into right bitches if you don't give them something sweet."

Brittany, passing by, quietly informed him that he was being offensive in his gender stereotyping, because the men on the ship were equally as dependent upon their chocolate.

xxxxx

The table they were seated around was massive; Blaine wasn't actually sure how they'd fit inside the cabin. He'd asked Kurt, but Kurt's reply had unhelpfully been "magic."

There were at least twenty men on the crew, and they'd all introduced themselves to Kurt and Blaine, but Blaine had forgotten most of them. He knew that the two men seated at the end of the table (who were strangely affectionate with each other in a way that Blaine thought should've made him uncomfortable, but didn't) were Wes and David, and that the one who spoke pompously and had already begun to dote on Blaine was named Thad, and the blond, bouncy one was Jeff. He knew the two female pirates were Mercedes and Brittany.

Throughout most of the meal, he found himself watching Kurt. There was something about the boy that was riveting. Whether it was because he was a star or because he was just _Kurt_, Blaine didn't know. He couldn't stop staring at the way the light in his eyes would shift when he tipped his head, the smooth line of his throat when he tipped his head back in a laugh, the way his hands looked with his fingers wrapped around his fork...

Later, when they were both lying in their hammocks, side-by-side, the snores of the crew surrounding them, Blaine asked him a question.

"What's it like up there?"

There was a moment's silence, and Blaine wondered if he was asleep. Then a sound of shifting canvas, and Kurt spoke. "Up where?"

"Where you live. In the sky. What is it like?"

"It's like being with a family," Kurt said quietly, immediately. "I was surrounded all the time by people I loved, who loved me. I stayed close to my father, of course, because he was the one who understood best."

"And your mother?" he asked, although he already knew the answer to that one, of course.

"My mother fell from the sky four hundred years ago," Kurt whispered, his voice going a little hoarse. "I was very young, so I don't remember it much, but I do know that she died down there. My father doesn't like to talk about it very much."

"Do you think she would've been proud of you?" Blaine asked.

Kurt was silent again. "I think she would've really liked you," he said, answering a question Blaine hadn't even known he desperately wanted the answer to.

xxxxx

After the first meal, Kurt and Blaine often ate alone. They told each other stories—Blaine, snorting with laughter (because, in retrospect, it was pretty funny), told Kurt about getting _fired_ from _church choir_, and Kurt told him about how, when his aunt was a young girl, she was grounded for nearly two hundred years for trying purposefully to knock herself out of the sky. On occasion, Blaine would succumb to the urge to feed Kurt a forkful of something particularly delicious from his own plate, and the look in Kurt's eyes when he did so always made his stomach tighten almost painfully.

Sometimes they were joined by Mercedes and Brittany. Kurt struck up a quick friendship with the former—they both had similar attitudes about many things, and Blaine enjoyed watching them play off of each other. He never grew close to the woman, choosing instead to spend more time with Brittany. She was peaceful, simple, but intuitive in a way Mercedes wasn't.

He enjoyed spending time with her, because her outlook on life was far more interesting that most peoples'. He knew that in his world, she would've been locked up or at least been kept as a shameful secret by her family, and couldn't fathom why. She was neither crazy, nor unintelligent. Her view of life was simply... different.

But in his world, different had never been a good thing.

"You're thinking hard," Kurt said, dropping down to sit next to him. Blaine had been sitting cross-legged on the upper deck of the ship, staring pensively out into the open sky ahead.

"What gave me away?" he asked, leaning a little into Kurt's warmth.

"You get that little wrinkle in your brow when you think about something too hard," Kurt said, passing him a plateful of food. "I've noticed it recently. What are you thinking about?"

"How narrow my world seems to be becoming in comparison to this one," Blaine frowned, taking a bite of the meat on the plate. "How can you and the other stars even stand to _look_ at my part of the world?"

"There's some beauty to your world that doesn't exist here," Kurt said quietly, and their eyes met again, and held.

Only for a second, and then Blaine's dropped once more. "I've been meaning to ask you something," he said, hesitantly.

Kurt merely raised an eyebrow, but his expression was kind.

"Those two men in the crew—Wes and David?"

Kurt looked as if he was fighting back a smile, although Blaine couldn't fathom why.

"Yes?" Kurt said.

"Are they—well—are they... romantically involved?"

Kurt actually laughed out loud, even though Blaine _still_ had no idea what was so amusing.

"Yes," he said again, pressing his lips together to hold back his laughter.

"And—in that inn, that warlock—I know it wasn't real, but his—he had a _husband_," Blaine finished. Kurt's eyes were too kind and understanding all of the sudden, and Blaine had to look away, because this was something he'd struggled with his _whole life_ and how could it be this _simple_ here?

He was surprised to feel a hand land on his arm, and he looked up to Kurt's glowing face (like, literally _glowing_, Blaine guessed it was a star thing) and bright, bright green eyes (and okay, Blaine wasn't crazy, they'd definitely been _blue_ yesterday). Kurt's voice was very gentle when he spoke.

"Blaine, this world is very different than yours. You lived in a world of ignorance where people are scared of things they cannot understand. Your world is limited—anything but the love between a man and a woman is prohibited. It isn't the same in Stormhold." His hand slid down to cover Blaine's, and Blaine looked down at it, then back up at Kurt. "I know you've seen some terrible things and people while you've been here, and so have I. But there are some _wonderful_ things about the magical world. On this side of the wall, love is not condemned between two men or two women—it is treated as ordinary. There is nobody here who would view it as any less normal than love between a man and a woman."

"That's—amazing," Blaine breathed, and almost without thinking, he turned his palm up under Kurt's hand and laced his fingers through the other man's.

There was a moment, then—a moment in which they just stared at each other. Blaine felt _something_ tug in his stomach, swell in his heart—but Kurt coughed and turned back to his meal, pulling his hand away, before Blaine could figure out what it was.

xxxxx

Puck taught Blaine how to play the piano. There was one in his cabin, just by the window, so that when Blaine got better at playing he could look out across the ocean and trees moving underneath. He was a quick learner—in only days he was composing his own half-pieces of music. They were simple melodies that didn't require much talent, but he was proud of them nonetheless.

One morning, a few days after they'd come aboard Captain Puckerman's ship, Blaine woke early with a tune already in his head. It was more complex than anything he'd yet created, but he knew he had to get to the piano and play it before it left him. He left Kurt (still slumbering peacefully in the hammock beside his, and _no_, he didn't spend a moment just looking at him and admiring his profile, because that would be strange), and let himself into the Captain's chambers. Puckerman was already awake, and gathering up a pair of swords and his tunic when Blaine walked in.

"May I?" he asked politely, although the answer was always the same.

"Be my guest," Puck grunted, hoisting a sack of something over his shoulder, and disappeared out the door.

It was afternoon when Blaine finally grew tired of playing the piano in the Captain's cabin. He ventured out, a tune still running through his mind, rubbing the dark from his eyes and blinking in the sudden light of the upper deck.

He heard the clash of swords first, as his eyes adjusted, _then_ saw the two fencing crewmen. Both were shirtless and glistening with sweat—it was clear they'd been dueling for some time in the hot sun.

The darker-skinned one was Captain Puckerman, Blaine saw immediately, and he had a fierce grin on his face as he fought. He had a bold technique—rough, sharp, short. The other was lithe, graceful, smooth. He moved like he was dancing, the muscles in his back shifting with every quick parry, step, and thrust.

Blaine couldn't help but let his eyes run down the man's body, drinking in his long legs and broad shoulders and thin waist. He was beautiful, in both appearance and motion.

The man stood, posture perfect, still as the calm sea below them, then moved forward in a strike that flashed quicker than lightning.

Puck's sword was knocked from his hands, falling to the floor with a clatter.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Puck asked, delightedly.

Kurt's breathy voice answered. "My mother."

Something flew from Blaine's stomach to his throat. He couldn't breathe. It was _Kurt_?

Puck gazed past Kurt, locking eyes with Blaine, and coughed.

Kurt turned.

Anything Blaine might have been about to say died in his throat.

Kurt's chest was just as glorious as his back—muscled and firm and _beautiful_. His stomach was tight and lean and smooth, and Blaine was overcome with a very odd and highly inappropriate desire to _run his tongue over it_, and he had to very forcibly remind himself of Rachel.

He could barely remember what Rachel's face looked like, because here was Kurt in front of him with two spots of color high on his cheeks, a glow to his skin that wasn't entirely human, and eyes bluer than the sky they traveled through and clearer than the ocean they glided above.

"Blaine?" Kurt said, uncertainly.

Blaine cleared his throat, gesturing to the sword dangling from Kurt's hand. "Teach me?"

xxxxx

They learned how to catch lightning, too.

It was a dirty and messy job, and at first Kurt balked. He didn't want to go up on the deck in a rubber raincoat and hat in the middle of a thunderstorm and siphon lightning into a small tube. Forget the hazards it presented, he only had _one outfit_ at the moment and he already had to wash it enough.

Puck tried to talk him out of the cabin, but Kurt had fixed him with an ice-cold glare and Puck had immediately withdrawn. He'd stormed up the stairs, announced that it was "a hopeless cause," and said that they might as well just start without Kurt.

That was when Blaine disappeared down the stairs, and returned two minutes later with a somewhat disgruntled-looking Kurt in tow. Nobody asked what he'd done to get Kurt to come up with him, although a few crew members traded knowing looks.

(In truth, all it had taken was Blaine's piteous puppy dog eyes and pout for Kurt to roll his eyes, throw his hands in the air, and say _"fine"_, a wonderfully pretty blush spreading across his face).

Kurt would never admit it, stubborn as he was, but he actually had _fun_ catching lightning with the rest of the crew. He was soaking wet (despite the raincoat), and he had this ever-present fear in the back of his mind that he was going to be struck by lightning at any moment (despite Captain Puckerman's reassurances that it wasn't possible), but it was actually... fun.

Well, it was mostly just because of how excited Blaine got about it. He was like a child, bouncing around the deck of the ship, climbing up the ropes and over the beams and railings like a small, excitable monkey. Kurt _hated_ that he found it so adorable.

Blaine took to lightning immediately, of course. He was a natural, and his enthusiasm and willingness to teach Kurt had Kurt excited about it, too. When they caught their first bolt, Blaine tackled Kurt in a hug.

Kurt let go a lot sooner than he'd have liked to.

xxxxx

"No, hold it like this," Kurt corrected gently, wrapping his fingers around Blaine's and adjusting his grip on the sword, trying not to let his hand linger.

"Okay, now watch me," he said, and did a twirl-parry-block-thrust combination that he knew would be too complicated for Blaine to follow, but looked like poetry in motion. So he wanted to show off a little. Who would it hurt?

Blaine tried to copy, then gave up, dropping his arm to his side and shooting Kurt a wry smile.

Kurt found himself smiling, the rare kind where he actually showed his teeth. He held up his arm, drawing the sword in tight to his body. "Follow my lead," he instructed, moving in front of Blaine to demonstrate.

Blaine's eyes immediately dipped down, following the graceful curve of Kurt's shoulders down his spine to his—his eyes snapped upwards again, his heart pounding out a beat in his chest.

Kurt appeared not to have noticed. "Okay, parry," he said, demonstrating, and the motion was much simpler this time. Blaine copied it with little difficulty.

"Now-" Kurt did a quick step-and-thrust forward, and Blaine followed, a little more clumsily than before.

Kurt sighed, dropping his arm and turning around, his forehead furrowed in thought. "This isn't working right. You're only going to learn the basic moves this way, not how to actually _fight_."

Blaine watched him with wary eyes, jumping a little as Kurt brandished his sword suddenly.

"Er... what?" Blaine asked, feeling as if he was missing something.

"Fight me," Kurt said, simply, drawing back into a more conventional stance. "Come on. It's the only way you'll get better."

"But I have no idea how to fence, Kurt," Blaine said, confused.

"Let your instincts guide you. You'll catch on quickly."

It was slow going—Kurt was obviously _very _talented, and had to pull back often to keep himself from injuring Blaine when his sword cut too closely. He was patient, though, and understanding, even under the hot, midday sun.

The way he lit up when Blaine parried a thrust of his made it all _worth_ it.

"Hold on," Kurt said, after a while, and set his sword down. "I'm getting overheated," he explained, in response to Blaine's questioning look, turned his back to Blaine, and peeled his shirt off.

Blaine groaned, rubbing his hand across his face.

Kurt turned to him, frowning, a questioning look on his face. "Oh—you can take yours off, too, Blaine, if you're getting too hot."

There is no way that Blaine was going to get through this.

xxxxx

Puck and Brittany actually taught Kurt how to dance.

Blaine already knew—he'd learned when he was young. Basic moves, rigid and simple, appropriate for polite company and for church choir, but still _dancing_. Kurt had no idea how to do it at all. It was something they hadn't done in the sky.

Blaine liked to sit on the rail beside the Captain's cabin and watch Brittany spin Kurt around. He liked to watch the way the boy laughed, his face aglow, as Puck jokingly dipped him back and feigned letting him fall to the deck of the ship.

He liked to watch Kurt.

He didn't like to think about why.


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: Sorry this took longer than usual, but I had a crazy weekend. (if you follow me on tumblr, you'll understand). On the upside... GLEE TOMORROW. HOLY SHIT.**

**Disclaimer: As usual, I do not own Glee or Stardust or anything affiliated with it.**

They'd been fencing for quite some time now.

Shirtless, of course, and Blaine had actually suffered a blow to the arm from Kurt's sword because he just _couldn't concentrate_. Kurt had apologized profusely, saying that he thought Blaine was going to dodge it, and wrapped Blaine's forearm in a silk scarf he'd found in the Captain's closet.

There had been a moment, when Kurt was wrapping Blaine's arm and Blaine was watching him—the sunlight glinting off his hair was somehow mesmerizing—when Kurt had looked up, and their eyes had met, and there had been that _something_ there again. That thing that Blaine was trying so hard to avoid, trying so hard _not_ to understand.

Now, the wound throbbed under the makeshift bandage every time Blaine moved, reminding him not to be so careless again.

It was their fifth or sixth time fencing, and Blaine was improving. He could see it in Kurt's eyes—the impressed smile whenever Blaine blocked a thrust, the subtle glow that his skin had taken on.

It was their fifth or sixth time fencing, and Blaine _still_ couldn't stop staring at Kurt's skin.

Kurt's sword flicked inches from his face, and Blaine flinched back, pulling his eyes from the shifting muscles in Kurt's biceps and _forcing_ himself to focus.

He began to advance on Kurt, and _Kurt began to retreat_. It was the first time that had ever happened, and the look of delight that was apparent on Kurt's face contrasted violently with the fact that, for once, Blaine was _winning_. And Kurt wasn't letting him win, he was actually trying, actually sweating to fight back, but Blaine had the upper hand and both of them knew it.

They'd drawn a crowd. Most of the crew was in a circle around them, strangely quiet underneath the clash of swords and the labored breathing of the two shirtless boys.

Kurt continued to retreat.

Blaine's triumph was quick—he knocked the sword from Kurt's hands, pressing the tip of his blade near Kurt's throat.

Kurt fell to his knees, head slightly bowed, eyes fixed on Blaine through lowered lashes.

Blaine felt his throat close up.

Something about seeing Kurt _on his knees—_he sheathed his sword quickly, pushing away bad thoughts. Ignoring the obvious once more.

He offered a hand to Kurt, helping him back to his feet.

"_Touche_," Kurt said.

He didn't let go of Blaine's fingers.

xxxxx

It was dark, the torches around the edge of the ship glowing. Puck had his arms around Kurt, steering him around the deck to the crackling music coming out of the phonograph. Blaine sat perched on the rail as usual, watching them with a smile on his face.

Kurt was glowing, glowing more brightly than ever. He fairly shone of warmth and happiness, and although it made Puck happy, to see the boy so happy (especially because he was fairly certain he knew the reason _for_ the boy's happiness), it also made him worry. Because he knew exactly what other people, people who weren't his crew, would do to someone like Kurt.

He bent close to Kurt's ear. "Kurt, I know what you are."

Kurt pulled away immediately, looking alarmed—no, frightened—and wary.

Puck pulled him back immediately. "No, no, don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you, and neither is _anyone_ on this ship,"—that was said with a growl—"but there are plenty who would."

Kurt was silent, his face thoughtful as Puck spun them around the deck of the ship.

"Your emotions give you away," Puck said, when Kurt didn't speak. "You should learn to control them. You're too obvious. You keep glowing more brightly every day. And I think you know why." He punctuated that statement with a lewd grin and a not-so-subtle flicker of his eyes towards Blaine, which Kurt chose to ignore.

"Of course I know why I'm glowing," Kurt said, haughtily. "I'm a star. And what do stars do best?"

"Well, certainly not the waltz," Puck said, and grunted when Kurt stomped on his toe.

He paused at Blaine's hand on his back—he hadn't even heard the boy come up behind him.

"Mind if I cut in?" Blaine asked, a hesitant smile on his lips.

Puck tried not to grin too broadly. "Be my guest," he said, letting go of Kurt and taking a step back.

Blaine stood much closer to Kurt than Puck had, slipping a hand to curl around Kurt's shoulder, letting Kurt change from his position as the follow to the lead.

The effect was immediate.

Kurt's glow was dazzling, brighter than all the torches around. Cleaner, purer, than any light Puck had seen on Earth. He was shining, radiating happiness and if Puck hadn't been sure before, he was now.

He had never seen Kurt glow more brightly than when he was in Blaine's arms.

xxxxx

"Due west, you said?" Karofsky asked, drawing his cloak more tightly around himself. He'd lost nearly all of his hair with the amount of magic he'd been using.

"Yes," Terri said, her eyes fixed on the spinning coin before her.

"And you're sure. Sure you're not lying," Karofsky said, keeping the woman in his peripheral vision.

"I'd cross my heart if I had one," Terri said, with a sweet little laugh.

Karofsky hesitated, then snapped his fingers. The coin fell from the air into Terri's hands. "You'd better be telling the truth, you two-faced dog," he said, a sneer curling his lip.

"I can get you one of those," Terri said, eagerly. "Very good guard dogs, actually—they can watch both the front and the back door at the same time. I can get you anything you want."

"What are the chances of getting a Babylon candle?" Karofsky asked, picking up what looked like a spiderweb encased in a jar.

"That's slim, actually," Terri said, apologetically. "Although, I did know a man once—the King, actually—we were involved before he chose that _infuriating_ redhead over _me_, and—"

"Enough," said Karofsky, bored already of the woman's voice, and pointed a finger at her mouth.

Terri squawked—literally _squawked, _like a monkey, or a bird, because Karofsky was inventive with his curses_—_as Karofsky left the shop, stealing a wig from a shelf.

xxxxx

"_Hold on tight! The Captain's at the helm!"_

Kurt's hands landed on either side of Blaine, clutching the side of the ship. They were at the very front of the ship—the prow, he'd heard someone call it—and even if it wasn't the brightest place to be when _Puck_ was steering the ship, he wasn't about to move. Not when Blaine had begged him with shining eyes to stand there with him.

Blaine leaned back against his chest, and Kurt sucked in a sharp breath of air, trying to force his heartbeat to relax. He thought _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel_ to himself for the millionth time in the past few days.

Blaine laughed as he tipped his head back to meet Kurt's eyes. "I can't tell if this is going to be fantastic or a disaster."

"It can't be both?" Kurt asked, a smile overtaking his lips despite himself.

"Touche," Blaine said, a soft smile slipping across his face.

Kurt had begun to see that look more and more often when he was around Blaine. He had no idea how to deal with it or what it was or where it came from—all he knew was that at some point, Blaine had stopped looking irritated and exasperated when Kurt snipped at him, and instead had started looking fond and somewhat amused and _something else_ that Kurt couldn't quite place.

He'd never seen it before.

At least, not directed at him.

The ship banked sharply, and Kurt pressed closer to Blaine as he felt the other begin to fall to the side.

The prow rose, and Kurt held his breath as the ship crashed to the water. Both of them let out high-pitched shrieks as ice-cold seawater drenched them, sloshing over the sides of the ship.

Puck stepped out from behind the helm proudly, and a rather panicked-looking crewman took the wheel, sighing in relief.

Kurt pretended nothing was out of the ordinary when neither he nor Blaine moved from their half-embrace.

It wasn't long until they reached the shore and dropped the gangplank.

Puckerman, still standing on the deck with Blaine, passed him a thin tube full of lightning. "So there's the road you'll need for Wall," he said, gruffly, gesturing to the road ahead, curving out of sight. "Good luck on your journey home, Kurt, wherever that may be."

Kurt smiled, ducking his head a little. Puck, for the dangerous pirate he claimed to be, was actually more soft-hearted than any other human Kurt had ever met.

Well, except for Blaine.

"Good luck to you, Blaine. With your Rachel," Puck said, pulling Blaine into a hug.

Kurt's expression instantly soured, though he hid it well. Mercedes pulled him into a hug. "I'll miss you," she said, into his shoulder.

"How can we ever thank you for your kindness?" Blaine asked quietly.

"Don't mention it," Puck said, with a warm grin. He lowered his voice. "No, really, _don't mention it._ Reputations, you know. Lifetime to build, seconds to destroy?"

Blaine grinned at him, and began to lower himself down the ladder to the lower deck.

"Oh—Blaine-"

Puck bent down, whispered something in Blaine's ear, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Just... think about it, all right?"

Blaine's eyes widened, a look of confusion crossing his face, followed by clarity. He fumbled a little bit on the ladder as he reached the bottom, turning to smile shakily at Kurt. "Shall we, then?"

"Give my regards to England," Puck called. "It's been a pleasure to meet you both."

Mercedes coughed, loudly.

Puck's face hardened. "Mind you don't wear the princess out, Captain Blaine!" he yelled, and the crew growled and cat-called in agreement.

Kurt's shoulders shook with laughter.

He waited until they were a good distance away from the ship before speaking. "What did he say to you?"

"What?" Blaine asked, and Kurt didn't think he was imagining the tinge of nervousness in his voice. "What did he say when?"

"Just then, when he whispered to you." Kurt kept his tone light, hoping his burning curiosity wouldn't show _too_ much.

"N-no," Blaine stuttered, "he was just saying... we should use the lightning to get you a Babylon candle."

Something didn't ring true about that statement (and Blaine wasn't a good liar, in any case), but it _was_ a good idea, so Kurt let it slide.

"Barter for it, you know?" Blaine asked, and when he offered his hand to Kurt to help him up a particularly rocky uphill, Kurt took it.

xxxxx

"I'm going to ask you again," Santana said, in a sickly-sweet voice. "_Where. Is. The boy."_

Terri made an uncomfortable squawking noise, then clawed at her throat.

"Are you _mocking_ me?" Santana asked, incredulously, before her face hardened into a glare. "Because if you are, I can _promise_ that it is the _last_ thing your sorry arse will _ever_ do."

Another squawk out of Terri's throat as she tried desperately to speak.

Santana's knife flashed.

"What a freak," she said, turning her back with a sneer as Terri slumped to the ground. "Clean this," she snapped, passing the knife to Sam. "Thoroughly."

xxxxx

Karofsky examined his face in the window of the coach. He didn't particularly care for what he saw. His skin was sagging once more, sallow and thin and _old_. What had once been muscle was beginning to slump on his bones. His teeth were yellowing once more—some had fallen out. He examined a particularly noticeable wrinkle by his neck, lifting a finger to zap at it.

The last of his hair fell out.

There was the sound of cackling laughter coming from his ring. He rolled his eyes and lifted it to his face.

"If you are quite finished squandering your magic on your rather counter-productive beauty routine, you might like to know that the _star_ has returned," Azimio said, his voice a little more than sarcastic.

"He's back on land," Strando added, as if Azimio hadn't just said that.

Karofsky smiled tightly at them. He could be _just_ as snarky and snide as they could. "I know, damn it. I couldn't reach the shore in time."

"No matter," Azimio said, with a more matter-of-fact tone, rubbing his runes together in his palm. "We have found him. He is on the road to the village of Wall. If you take the shortcut across the marshes, you should arrive in time to intercept him."

xxxxx

There was a carriage making its way down the path. It was still a distance off, but unease twisted in Blaine's stomach.

"Kurt," he said, and that was all the notice Kurt got before he was shoved into the underbrush, hitting the ground hard, knocking all his breath out.

Blaine landed on top of him, and Kurt _really _couldn't breathe.

"Are you trying to hurt me _again_?" he asked severely, as soon as he had enough air to speak.

"I'm sorry," Blaine apologized immediately, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "I just—I can't risk people seeing you. It's too dangerous. I don't trust anyone."

Kurt's heart thudded unevenly, before he reminded himself that the only reason Blaine _cared_ about his safety was because he needed Kurt in order to marry Rachel.

"But at this rate, if we keep stopping-" Kurt was silenced by a finger to his lips. _Blaine's_ finger. _Oh_. His eyes widened.

Kurt was glowing. He knew he was glowing, could feel it shining out of every pore and orifice, but he couldn't seem to _control_ it, as Captain Puckerman had told him to. Blaine was on top of him. Blaine was speaking to him so gently. Blaine hadn't moved his finger from Kurt's lips, and had gone from pressing it there in a universal sign of silence, to almost... _caressing_ Kurt's lower lip.

"We're making good time," Blaine whispered, and the expression on his face was almost... tender.

Blaine looked to the side, clearly listening for more passer-by.

When he looked back to Kurt, he was startled to find the other man still watching him.

"Aren't you tempted?" Kurt asked, softly, and as he spoke, his glow brightened even more.

"Tempted?" Blaine asked. Yes, that would be a good word for what he felt, with Kurt lying long and slim and muscled beneath him, with Kurt's reddened lips inches from his. "By what?"

"Immortality?" Kurt murmured.

Blaine's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Say, hypothetically, that it wasn't _my_ heart," Kurt said, his eyes searching Blaine's. "Not _me_. Just some star you didn't know. What if?"

"You seriously think I could kill anyone?" Blaine murmured, a smile quirking at his lips.

Kurt laughed. Blaine hushed him, glancing around.

"I'd never hurt anyone, especially not you," Blaine said, and his hand was _definitely_ caressing Kurt's face now. "And even if I could... everlasting life? I imagine it would be kind of... lonely." His gaze moved from Kurt's face, taking on a somewhat pensive look. "Well... maybe if you had someone to share it with. Someone you love."

_Rachel_, Kurt reminded himself, bitterly. It didn't matter the kind of signals Blaine may have been sending him—he was in love with Rachel, and he was going to marry her and spend the rest of his relatively short life with her.

He felt his glow dim.

"Come on," Blaine said, appearing not to notice as he slid off of Kurt. "I think we're safe." He stood, brushing his knees off, and holding out a hand to help Kurt up.

Kurt waved it off. He didn't want Blaine's help.

xxxxx

"Captain Puckerman has a fearsome reputation," Santana said as she and her men crested the hill. "He's going to be far more difficult to overpower than the rest of those whimpering, simpering infants we've encountered so far on our journey."

She pretended not to see Sam roll his eyes.

They boarded the ship.

The crew stared at them, blankly.

"We're taking over," Santana declared.

A black woman standing towards the front snorted.

"Is something funny?" she asked, sharply.

A willowy blond next to her shook her head. "You can't take over the ship, it's not yours. That would be wrong."

She met Santana's eyes.

Suddenly, the fact that she had never felt anything towards the many suitors she'd always had pursuing her made much more sense.

It was because none of them were _her._

None of them were an unassuming, happy, beautiful, yellow-haired girl who smiled at Santana like sunshine.

"My name's Brittany," the girl said, with a wobbly curtsy unlike anything Santana had ever seen at the palace. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Brittany was trying, she really was. She just didn't know how to be like something Santana was accustomed to—because she _wasn't_ like anything Santana was accustomed to.

"I'm Santana," she said, after a brief pause.

"You're very pretty," Brittany said, and Santana probably would have scoffed had anyone else said that to her, but from Brittany, it somehow seemed sincere.

"Thank you," Santana said, the thought of finding the star and the stone nearly gone from her mind.

Until Sam coughed quietly at her side.

"Right," she said, her face hardening. She couldn't forget the ultimate goal because of some silly girl she'd just met. "Men?"

In an instant, her men had drawn their swords and had them pointed at various crew members on the ship-all except for Sam. He was staring at one member of the crew- the first mate, who was standing outside the door to her Captain's chambers, her arms crossed.

"We really don't want to hurt you," Sam said, sounding sickeningly earnest. "And we won't hurt your Captain, either, if you'll let us through. We just want to know where the boy is."

The first mate rolled her eyes. "As if you _could_ hurt Captain Puckerman, white-skin. Haven't you heard of him? He rules the sky using a combination of intimidation and fear. He ain't scared of anything, especially not your sorry arse. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Then I guess you have nothing to worry about, do you?" Santana asked, placing one hand on her hip and arching an eyebrow. "Sam, watch her." she nodded towards the dark-skinned first mate.

Sam seemed a little too excited by this prospect.

Santana let herself have one last, lingering look at the blond girl still standing by the crow's nest, then let herself into the cabin.

They waited until Santana was inside the cabin to attack her men.

Sam dove overboard the ship.

He wasn't about to die because Santana was insane.

Santana heard music when she entered the chamber. Piano music. It took her only a few moments to figure out where it was coming from; there was a small straight-backed piano pushed into one corner. A man sat at it, his head shaven but for one strip of hair.

His face was painted completely white, black streaks covering it in odd patterns.

The music he was playing was loud and fast and furious sounding, nothing like the sweet melodies Santana had been taught to play back at the Palace.

She kind of liked it.

He stopped when he saw her.

"Get the hell out of my cabin!" he growled, furiously.

She drew her sword, pressing it to his neck. "Not before you tell me where the boy is, twinkle-toes."

Brittany calmly cleaned the blood off her sword. "We should go find Puck."

Mercedes was staring at her, a little slack-jawed. "That's probably a good idea."

Santana pressed him to the table. "I'm going to count to three. One... two...-"

The door burst open.

"_Hey_!" Mercedes yelled.

Brittany was right behind her.

They charged.

Santana sighed, and leapt out the window. As she sank into the water, darting downwards to avoid the knives darting down around her, she thought regretfully of the blond-haired beauty in Puckerman's crew. Maybe if they'd met under different circumstances...

It didn't matter, anyway.

xxxxx

"You know you sort of glitter sometimes?" Blaine asked, hesitantly. "I've just noticed. Is it normal?"

"Let's see if you can work it out for yourself," Kurt teased. "What do stars do?"

"Um... attract trouble?" Blaine asked, with a grin.

Kurt elbowed him. He fell to the side, laughing.

"Okay, no, I'm sorry. Let me—do I get another guess?"

Kurt arched an eyebrow at him.

"Is it... do they know exactly how to annoy a boy called Blaine Anderson?"

There was a large stone planted in the ground a few paces from them. Kurt stopped, staring at the lettering on it, feeling his heart sink.

_Wall_, it read. _60 miles_.

"How long will that take?" he asked Blaine, who was staring at the stone as well.

Blaine scrunched his nose in thought. "Maybe... two days?"

"But we don't _have_ two days," Kurt reminded him, although of _course_ Blaine already knew. This was Blaine's true love they were talking about, after all. "Rachel's birthday is tomorrow."

Blaine looked startled, as if he _hadn't_ known that. "Yes – yes it is. Well remembered."

He gazed at Kurt for a moment until Kurt pulled his eyes away, slightly uncomfortable. "Come on. We may as well walk as quickly as possible."

xxxxx

"Cup of Earl Grey," Wes said, setting down the teacup in front of Puck.

Puck sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. The makeup smeared, and he groaned. "Get out, everyone. Get out."

"Did he hurt you, Captain?" David asked.

Puck gave him an _I-can't-_believe_-I'm-hearing-this_ sort of expression.

"Did you tell him where your nephew and the boy went?" Mercedes asked quietly, pulling up a chair and straddling it.

Puck shook his head.

"So what's the problem?" Jeff asked, sweetly.

"It's my reputation," Puck said, after a moment's hesitation. "How am I supposed to be known as a vicious pirate if I rock out on the piano all the time?"

"No, no, don't be silly. Nonsense," Wes said, glowering at the rest of the crew, who scrambled to agree with him.

"It's all right, Captain," Brittany said, sweetly, and Puck looked up. "We always knew you were a whoopsie."

She was immediately pulled to the back of the group.

"You'll always be our Captain, Captain," Mercedes said, earnestly.

Puck lifted his fist, and the crew scrambled to tap theirs against his.

"Now get out," Puck growled, and the crew scrambled to do that, too.

xxxxx

Santana resurfaced, gasping and spitting hair away from her face. She dragged herself from the water, climbing hand over hand up the rocky slope until she reached where the boy—the one she'd found at the warlock's trap—was waiting, still atop his borrowed horse.

"Princess Santana," the boy said, his voice an annoying hum in her ear, "your men—they're dead-"

"Oh, really," she snarled, and climbed aboard the horse, throwing him bodily from it.

She left him there on the ground. Somebody else could take care of him.

xxxxx

When Quinn stepped onto the ship, the mood in the air changed dramatically. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look at her. She supposed she did look rather out of place, with her royal blue brocade gown sweeping the dirty deck of the ship.

The dark-skinned woman closest to her exchanged a look with another, Asian-looking man, and both of them drew their swords.

Quinn offered a wry smile. "I see Santana has already been here."

xxxxx

There was a caravan slowly rolling along down the path. A bright yellow caravan, with an angry-looking woman driving it.

Kurt, pressed against the underside of the bridge, leaned towards Blaine. "I met that woman. She knows the Captain. He said she trades at the market near Wall. We could hitch a lift."

"Really?" Blaine asked, lifting himself up to peer over the bridge. "She's a friend of the Captain's? You sure?"

"Yes, yes," Kurt said, quickly, and he followed Blaine as Blaine clambered up the slope of the hill.

"Wait, wait!" Blaine called, holding out a hand. The horse hitched to the caravan snorted in surprise. "My name is Blaine Anderson, and this is-"

"That's my flower," the woman said, her voice steely, pointing to Blaine's lapel. "Eighteen years I've been _looking_ for that flower and _you_ have it, you dwarfized, curly-haired man-child."

Blaine blinked.

Kurt looked confused.

"Give it to me, now," the woman commanded, standing up to stride over to Blaine, towering over him. He drew his sword.

"How dare you!" Kurt said, reaching out to touch Blaine's arm, and glaring at the woman. "That was a gift from his father. He's never _met_ him before."

The bird attached to the front of the caravan twittered madly.

The woman eyed the sword. "Maybe I was mistaken," she said, although the sneer on her face told both of them that she was sure she wasn't.

"It's all right," Blaine said, pulling his sword back slightly. "It's obviously very valuable to you, so you can have it in exchange for what I need. A Babylon candle?"

"And safe passage to the wall," Kurt began, but was cut off by the woman.

"A Babylon candle?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "Oh, no, no. I don't deal in that sort of magic. I leave that to the pathetic underlings who don't have the ability to make a name for themselves without it."

"Well, could you give us a lift, then?" Blaine asked, gesturing towards her caravan. "To the wall?"

The woman appraised him. "I suppose so. Why didn't you say so in the first place, midget?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. Was he _invisible_?

"For that flower, I can offer you passage."

"Safe passage?" Blaine asked, lifting the flower from his lapel.

"I swear that you will arrive at the wall in the exact same condition that you're in now."

He didn't like the smirk on her face, but what choice did he have? Besides, she was friends with the Captain.

He sheathed his sword, passing her the flower.

She closed her fist around it, her face splitting in a decidedly menacing grin. "Do you have any idea what this was?"

"Some kind of lucky charm?" Blaine guessed.

"A very lucky charm," Sue said, bending down so they were eye-to-eye. "Protection. In fact, the exact same thing that would've prevented me from doing this."

A cloud of black smoke shot from her raised finger, and Blaine felt as if his skin was melting off.

Kurt watched in horror as he shrank until nothing was left of him.

Not _nothing_, exactly.

When the smoke cleared, a small brown bird hopped on the ground where Blaine had once been.

"Oh my god!" Kurt cried, panicking. "What did you do?" He turned furiously upon the witch.

He attempted to hit the woman—maybe he wasn't a violent person, but she _needed_ some sense beaten into her—but to no avail.

_You will not see the star, touch it, smell, or hear it. _

"Though I'll keep my word," the witch was saying, cupping the little bird in her palms. "You won't be harmed, unfortunately."

Kurt followed her into the caravan, where she was settling Blaine into a small, hanging cage.

"There," she was saying.

"Am I correct in thinking that you can neither see nor hear me?" Kurt asked, fists shaking in rage.

The woman didn't respond.

"Then let me inform you that your clothing looks as if you've spent the better half of five years in a ditch and haven't bathed once during that time, and your _face_ looks like the wrong end of a _dog_, and I swear, if I don't get _my Blaine _back as he was, I'll be your _personal poltergeist_."

He waited until she was out of the caravan and it had begun to move once more before darting forward, curling his hands around the bars of Blaine's cage.

"Blaine? If you can understand me, _look_ at me now."

Blaine chirped, his head tilting to the side, and looked past Kurt, at something to the side of the caravan.

Kurt looked at it.

A jar of seeds sat perched on the shelf.

He sighed, standing up to get the jar, and poured a handful into his palm. He sat back down beside the cage, holding his hand out flat for Blaine to peck the seeds off his palm.

"When I said I knew little about love, it wasn't true," he told Blaine softly. "I know a lot about love, Blaine. I haven't had any for myself—not the romantic kind, the kind I long for, anyway—but I've _seen_ it. I've seen centuries and centuries of it. I mean, it was the only thing that made watching your world even remotely bearable. All those wars. Pain, and lies... hate... All of that made me want to turn away and never look down again. But to see the way that mankind can love—you could search the furthest reaches of the universe and never find anything more beautiful." He took a deep breath. "So, yes. I know that love is unconditional. But I also know that it can be unpredictable, unexpected, uncontrollable, unbearable... and, well, strangely easy to mistake for loathing and annoyance and exasperation.

"What I'm—what I'm trying to say, Blaine, is—I think I _love_ you."

He smiled despite himself, color blooming across his cheeks, even though he wasn't saying this to the real man.

"I know you can't feel the same—_don't_ feel the same—but I have never met anyone like you, in the sky or on earth. You are the kindest, most honest, _handsomest_ man I've ever met. You've become my closest friend. And when I'm around you, my heart—it feels like my chest can _barely_ contain it. Like it doesn't belong to me anymore—it belongs to you. And if there was even the most minuscule of chances—a miracle of miracles—that you wanted me back, you wanted my heart... I'd ask for _nothing_ in return. No gifts, no goods, no demonstrations of devotion. Nothing but knowing you loved me too."

He sighed, leaning against the wall of the caravan. "Just your heart... in exchange for mine."


	8. Chapter Seven

**A/N: This scene is NC-17. Proceed with caution. I have changed the rating of the story.**

The music sounded off. Everything about it sounded off, because his heart wasn't in it anymore. Not the way it had been earlier.

Puck slammed his fingers into the keys, a jumble of discordant sound, then rubbed the side of his neck, grimacing when his fingers came away stained red.

"You should put something on that."

He nearly leapt out of his skin, before spinning around to scowl at whoever had spoken.

There was a yellow-haired woman standing there who he'd never seen before. She was stunning in every way, from the very obviously expensive dress she wore to the dark green of her eyes.

"Who are you?" Puck asked, gruffly.

"My name is Quinn," the woman said, taking a step forward. "I—I was looking for my sister."

"You just missed her," Puck said flatly.

"So I've been made to understand," Quinn said, softly. She hesitated. "Really. I have something I could put on that. It'll help slow the bleeding and prevent infection."

He folded his arms, glancing her over before finally nodding. "Fine. Go ahead."

She took the final steps towards him, sitting on the piano bench beside him before reaching into the bag at her hip and withdrawing a small roll of linens.

Puck watched her as she plastered it to his neck, watched the way the sun glinted off her hair.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Do you have somewhere to stay?"

She looked up, mild surprise coloring her face. "No, actually," she said, with a small laugh. "I have no idea what I'm doing anymore."

"You're—you're welcome here," he said, clearing his throat. "You know, if you need someplace."

There was another moment of silence before she responded. "Thank you."

xxxxx

It was dark when the caravan finally rolled to a stop. The witch drew the latch from across the door, grinning to herself as she caught sight of Blaine, sitting in the corner of the cage. She set him on the ground, bending over to speak to him.

_Ridiculous and rude_, Kurt thought. _He can't understand you_.

"The wall is one mile that way," she whispered to him, straightening up. "Though the walk might take you a little longer than normal. Transformation tends to leave the brain a bit scrambled for a while." She paired the statement with a smug grin, before tapping the bird on the tip of its beak.

It took only seconds for the smoke to billow around the figure on the ground, and for Blaine to emerge from the cloud. He took one look at the woman and drew his sword—and fell to the ground.

Kurt dropped to his knees immediately to pull him up, glaring at the woman as he did so.

"I warned you," the woman said, disdain clear in her voice. "Save your strength."

She was gone before Kurt could do more than glare angrily after her.

He turned back to Blaine, cupping the man's face in his hands. "I've been so worried about you," he said, gently, stroking a thumb across one of Blaine's cheekbones.

A silly grin split Blaine's face. "Rachel," he said.

The smile fell from Kurt's. "I think I preferred 'father,'" he said, flatly. He sighed. "Come on. There's an inn over there; we can stay there tonight. Rachel's birthday's not until tomorrow. I think I need a bath and you need a good night's sleep before you present me to her."

He led Blaine to the Slaughtered Prince (nice name for an inn), dumping him onto the single bed in their room (trying not to think too hard about _that—_and failing). He waited until he was certain Blaine was unconscious before stripping himself of his clothing, giving it a quick scrub, and hanging it out to dry.

Blaine had had a bath more recently than he had, so he only removed Blaine's rather dirty overcoat to wash.

Afterwards, he climbed into the bathtub, letting out a sigh as he sank into the warm water.

It was only then that he finally allowed himself to really _think_ about what had happened over the past two weeks, and what he'd said in the caravan.

Blaine was unlike anyone he'd ever met. Unlike anyone he was sure he'd ever meet again. And Kurt knew that, and thought of all of the positive qualities about Blaine's personality that made him so attractive.

But Kurt was naked, in the bath, and he was male, and it wasn't long before his mind slipped to thoughts of Blaine's body—the way he'd looked when he was shirtless and tan and sweating under the sun, the way the lines of his back were hard and sharp and noticeable, even now, underneath a vest and a shirt.

Kurt groaned, tipping his head back against the tub as he gave himself in to the deluge of images that suddenly poured into his mind.

Some were innocent—waking up next to Blaine, both of them curled together, cuddling into him as they watched the stars blink into light—but most weren't. Most were Blaine's body moving against his own, Blaine's voice choking out his name, Blaine's fingers inside him or—he gave a delighted shudder—his fingers in _Blaine_. Their limbs intertwined. Their gasps mingling together.

His hand crept down his stomach, down to where all the blood in his body was rapidly rushing.

"Excuse me?" a voice said. _Blaine's_ voice.

Kurt's eyes flew open and he choked a little, splashing in the water.

"I think you're in my bath." Blaine's voice was foolish, silly, and so very _Blaine_.

"Don't look at me," Kurt snapped, and waited until Blaine had turned away before pulling a towel from the rack.

"All right, you can open them now," he said, once the towel was firmly fixed around his hips.

He and Blaine exchanged a small smile (a little sheepish on Blaine's part) before Kurt turned to the mirror, combing through his wet hair.

Blaine could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He forced his mouth open.

"Did you really mean what you said in the caravan?" he asked, his tone conversational.

Kurt froze.

His heart froze with him.

"But—but you were a bird! You were a bird, you wanted seeds!"

Blaine laughed, light and carefree and happy because _it was true_. He hadn't imagined any of it, it was true, Kurt _wanted_ him, Kurt _loved_ him.

Kurt hid his face in his hands. "I asked you to give me a sign," he said through his fingers.

"And stop you from saying such lovely things?" Blaine's fingers were on Kurt's hands, gently prying them away from Kurt's face. He held them gently in his own hands.

"Look at me," he said, quietly.

Kurt's eyes met his, his expression terrified.

"You move me, Kurt."

Kurt stared at him, his eyes uncomprehending, breath caught on the inhale.

"Do you—do you understand what I'm trying to say?" Blaine asked, hesitantly.

Slowly, Kurt shook his head. His eyes were so full of hope that Blaine's heart absolutely _ached_ with the desire to just lean up and kiss him, to explain in _that_ way exactly how much he _felt_ for Kurt. But he had to make Kurt understand with words, because this was important. This was the most important thing Blaine had ever done in his eighteen years of life.

"Do you know what Captain Puckerman really whispered to me that time?"

Kurt nodded, breathless.

"He told me that my true love was right in front of my eyes."

There it was. Kurt was glowing—only a very small amount, as if he was trying _so hard _not to hope—but glowing, nonetheless.

"And he was right," Blaine whispered, his thumb brushing Kurt's cheek, and then he was leaning up.

Their lips met.

Their first kiss was uncertain, because Kurt was still in shock, and because Blaine still didn't much know what he was doing. He wasn't used to leaning _up_ to kiss someone, and he found he liked it, liked the way he had to tilt his head back just slightly for a better angle.

Kurt's hand fluttered against Blaine's chest, then both flew up to cup Blaine's face and _he was kissing back_. Kurt was kissing Blaine, and that was his _tongue_ tracing Blaine's lips, and oh—he sucked Blaine's lower lip into his mouth.

Blaine's hands gripped the edge of the towel. He forced himself _not_ to just rip it off, teased himself by running his fingers along the edge of the cloth.

Kurt's mouth left his, sliding down his neck to suck on the skin at the hollow of his throat. Blaine tipped his head back further, clutching Kurt's towel in his hands and struggling to breathe as Kurt's hands slid down to cup his ass.

"I love you," Kurt breathed against his neck, his hands gliding feather-light up Blaine's back to his shoulder blades. "So much, Blaine-"

"Kurt-" Blaine drew in a breath, deep and shuddering. "_Please_, Kurt, bed-"

Kurt drew back a little, examining him with glowing eyes. "Do you know what you're-"

"I talked to Wes and David, asked them some questions—_please_-"

"I—yes," Kurt whispered, and Blaine's hands pulled the towel away from Kurt.

His breath caught.

This—_this. _How could he ever have thought himself capable of being interested in women when there was a being like _this_ around? How could he even look at someone like Rachel when there was someone like Kurt standing beside her, outshining her in every way?

"Blaine?" Kurt asked, his voice slightly shaky.

"You are so beautiful," Blaine breathed, and Kurt's eyes widened.

"I-"

"Teach me," Blaine said, his hand reaching out, just to touch, to see if this was real.

It was.

Kurt sucked in a sharp breath as Blaine's hand wrapped around him. "Lie down," he said, his voice shaky.

"Yes," Blaine said, scrambling to the bed, nearly tripping in his haste and his reluctance to tear his eyes from Kurt. He pushed himself onto the bed, sliding backwards until his head fell to the pillow.

"How much do you know?" Kurt breathed. He seemed to be entranced with Blaine's legs—he was running his hands up and down them, cupping them gently with the palms of his hands.

He was glowing, a soft white shine that dragged a slight whimper from Blaine's throat.

"I know where—what to do," Blaine said, softly. "They were nice when they told me. They weren't crude."

Kurt crawled up beside him on the bed, sliding a hand over his hip and kissing him soft and slow. He rubbed his nose against Blaine's once before pulling away, smiling widely at the giddy grin on Blaine's face. "Did they tell you how _amazing_ it can feel?"

"Have you done... this before?" Blaine asked, his voice uncertain.

Kurt's hand skimmed up his back, sliding around to rest just behind Blaine's shoulder. "No," he said. "You—you are—the only-" he sighed, leaning forward to press his lips to Blaine's once more. "You are the only," he said, firmly, holding Blaine's gaze.

Blaine's breath caught.

It didn't matter how much he looked at Kurt, he still couldn't believe how extraordinarily _gorgeous_ he was. He wondered how he hadn't known immediately that Kurt was something other than human when he'd first run into him. The way his eyes _shone_ in that beautiful-strange shade of gray-blue-green, the pale white glow of his flawless skin, the perfect little tilt of his nose, the sharp cut of his jawline, the quirk of his lips when he smiled, the way his cheeks dimpled when he laughed...

"You're staring," Kurt said, softly.

"There's so much to stare at," Blaine murmured, lifting a hand to slide it into Kurt's softly glowing hair. "You're amazing."

Color rose on Kurt's cheeks.

He let his hands slide down to explore Kurt's body, slipping over Kurt's shoulders, shoulders he'd been fixated on since they'd dueled each other on Captain Puckerman's ship. He let his fingers trace down Kurt's spine, and when his nails dragged he felt Kurt suck in a sharp breath.

He tilted his head down to press a soft kiss against Kurt's shoulder.

"You're wearing far too much clothing," Kurt said, quietly, his hands coming up to rest against Blaine's collar. "Do you mind if I-"

"_Please_ do," Blaine said, and he almost didn't care about how needy his voice sounded, because Kurt's fingers were slipping the buttons on his shirt from their buttonholes, slowly pushing the shirt off his shoulders and chest until it slid off Blaine completely, settling beneath him on the bed.

Any self-doubt he'd had about how he would look unclothed compared to Kurt vanished as Kurt's gaze fell on him. The other man looked _hungry_, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he ran his eyes over Blaine's body.

He shifted his gaze back to Blaine's face, and offered him a half-smile before tugging at the waistband of Blaine's trousers. "I think these have to go, too," he said, flicking at the drawstrings that helped to keep them up. Blaine fumbled at the strings as he tried frantically to untie them.

Kurt's breathing halted when Blaine finally pushed the trousers down around his ankles before kicking them off.

"_You_ are beautiful, Blaine," he said, letting his eyes sweep slowly down Blaine's body, before he blushed and looked away. "I—I thought I would be more uncertain than I am about this. I've never been _like this_ with anyone before."

His arm slid around Blaine's waist, his hand pressing to the small of Blaine's back, their legs tangling together, their breath intermingling.

"I've never been more sure about anything, though," he said, and there was wonder in his eyes. "I want to make love to you, Blaine. If you'll let me."

His eyes were so wide, so sincere, so full of _love_, that it took Blaine a moment to answer. All he could do was nod.

Kurt's breath huffed out in a relieved sigh, and he lifted one hand to brush it across Blaine's curls. His fingers were shaking.

"I've never done this," he said, quietly. "I know what I'm doing in theory, but not experience-wise. You need to tell me if I'm hurting you, or if you want to stop."

"I trust you," Blaine said, and it seemed to be the simplicity of the statement that moved Kurt the most.

"Try to relax," Kurt breathed, leaning in to kiss him. For a moment, his hands didn't touch Blaine, then one came up to cup Blaine's cheek, and the other—slippery and wet—slid down, pressing gently against him.

"Breathe," Kurt whispered against his mouth, and Blaine gasped against his mouth as one of Kurt's fingers slowly slid inside.

It was slow. He'd expected the slight burn—Wes and David had informed him of that—but that didn't mean he was prepared for it. He clutched Kurt's shoulders as Kurt worked him slowly, as the slight burn and stretch slowly faded into something _more_, something that left him aching and wanting and yearning.

Kurt was pressing damp kisses against his chest, his throat, as his fingers moved slowly inside Blaine, and Blaine felt like he was going to _burst_ from all that he was feeling.

Kurt was slow, and patient, and by the time he had three fingers inside Blaine, Blaine was a panting, babbling mess, clinging to Kurt's biceps and staring up at him with wide, dark eyes. Kurt was shaking, glowing even more brightly than before, when he leaned down to kiss Blaine.

Their lips moved soft and slow together, more certain than they had been before. Kurt's tongue slowly traced Blaine's lips, and Blaine let his mouth fall open, let Kurt take his mouth however he wanted.

Blaine broke the kiss, curling his hands tight around Kurt's shoulders and letting out a broken moan as Kurt's fingers twisted inside him. "I love you," he panted.

"I love you, too," Kurt whispered, and his glow brightened until it nearly hurt Blaine's eyes to look at him, he was so radiant.

He had to close his eyes against the sheer volume of _feelings_ that rose up in him—feelings about the way Kurt shuddered every time Blaine made even the smallest of noises, feelings about the way Kurt stared down at him, an expression of awe and rapture coloring his face, feelings about the way the fingers of the hand that wasn't inside him stroked ever-so-gently down his side.

His hands slid up to cup Kurt's neck, and he pushed himself against Kurt's hand, aching for more.

"I need you," he whispered brokenly. "Please."

The kiss that Kurt leaned forward to give him was unexpectedly gentle and warm. He made a choked-off noise when Kurt's fingers slipped out of him.

Kurt's eyelashes brushed against his cheek, feather-light. "I'll go slowly," he said softly as he lifted Blaine's legs slightly.

They were tangled together, closer than Blaine had ever been with anyone before, closer than he'd ever _wanted_ to be with anyone before Kurt.

And then Kurt was _there_, pressing in, and it was slow and a little uncomfortable and a little painful, and it took a few tries, but he was there. And suddenly, Blaine could breathe.

Kurt was watching his face anxiously, his hand cupping Blaine's cheek, and all Blaine wanted was for Kurt to _move_, to be there. All he wanted was to feel Kurt, really feel him and only him for the rest of his life.

He locked his arms around Kurt, leaning up as far as he could. "Kiss me," he begged, and he could hear the desperation in his voice.

Kurt seemed as desperate as he was, meeting Blaine halfway in a kiss that melted Blaine into the mattress, a kiss that was tongue and lip and white-hot _want_.

"I want you," Blaine said, against his lips, and Kurt let out a startled moan. "All of you, every minute, every day, Kurt, I want you."

Kurt rolled his hips, a languid movement that left Blaine gasping into his shoulder and clutching at the bedsheets.

"Please," he begged.

"Anything," Kurt promised, his voice strained, and his hips rolled harder, stuttering into a slow rhythm.

His legs wrapped around Kurt, pulling him closer, even though he was as close as he could possibly be. "Don't stop," he breathed, and then he couldn't say more, because the breath was pulled from him with another roll of Kurt's hips.

"I won't." Kurt's promise was a moan, and it made Blaine's stomach twist up, although that also could have been the fact that Kurt's eyes hadn't strayed from his. The fact that Kurt was looking him in the eye while they did this, was most certainly thinking of _him_, and not anyone else. The fact that Kurt had confessed, oh-so-beautifully, how hopelessly in love with _Blaine_ he was. The fact that he, and only he, would ever get to see Kurt like this, so wrecked and flushed and needy.

The fact that someone like Kurt—someone so amazing and talented and beautiful and intelligent and snarky and handsome and witty and _unreal_ as he was—would ever want someone like him, let alone _love_ someone like him.

Kurt's lips brushed his neck, and he gasped as Kurt moved inside him, his hands pressed tight to the underside of Blaine's thighs.

"I love you so much," Kurt murmured against his skin, and that was what did it for him, that was what sent him over the edge. He shook in Kurt's grasp, arching against Kurt's chest and crying out Kurt's name.

Kurt fell with him, going still inside him and pressing down against him, a breathless cry of Blaine's name breaking from his throat.

They lay together like that, still for a few moments.

Blaine began to laugh.

Kurt pulled out and away slowly, the hurt expression on his face not dissipating even as Blaine's laugh shifted to a wince.

"What, pray tell, do you find so humorous?" he asked.

"Just..." Blaine shook his head, reaching up to cup Kurt's cheek, eyes dark and serious. "I've been looking for you forever."

xxxxx

"You're very close," Azimio said. "He's in the market town. One mile from the gap in the wall."

"You say that as if it's _good_ news," Karofsky growled, folding his arms. "Do I need to remind you that Wall is not part of our universe? If he crosses into Wall, into the _human world_, our star becomes nothing more than a god-damned _rock_."

"Then I suggest you _hurry up."_


	9. Chapter Eight

When Blaine woke up, he was curled up against Kurt's back, one arm flung over the other man's waist. Kurt was still glowing softly, though his chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of sleep. He was so beautiful, it actually took a few moments before Blaine could force himself to look away.

When he finally wrenched his gaze from Kurt, it was to lift a knife from the bedside table and press it to the back of Kurt's neck.

He sliced off a lock of hair.

Just a small piece, but it still sort of hurt him, especially as he watched the glow fade from it once it was separated from its owner.

It physically pained him to crawl out of bed, leaving Kurt by himself.

He wrapped the hair in his handkerchief, slipped into his clothing, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

He rang the bell on the counter downstairs.

The innkeeper, lying sprawled across a chair, stirred and groaned. "_What_?"

"Sorry," Blaine murmured, trying to keep his voice low. "Could I have a piece of paper and a pen?"

"Ask me again," the innkeeper grumbled, "at a more reasonable hour."

"No, I can't, really, I have to go," Blaine said, glancing over his shoulder. "Look, if my friend wakes up before I get back, please, could you give him a message?"

"Go on," the innkeeper said.

xxxxx

The bed was cold when Kurt opened his eyes. That was the first thing he noticed, although it didn't seem to be a big deal, because Blaine's hands and feet were always cold. Poor circulation.

"You know, that's the first time I've ever actually slept at night," Kurt murmured, unable to keep the drowsy content out of his voice. He shut his eyes once more, rolling over and snuggling into his pillow. "I can't believe it."

He opened his eyes when Blaine didn't respond.

The bed was empty.

xxxxx

The guard at the wall was asleep.

Not that it mattered. He was there to stop people from _leaving_ Wall, not from entering it.

It was much easier to cross over than it had been two weeks ago.

xxxxx

Kurt tripped down the stairs, the laces to one of his boots still untied.

The innkeeper raised a glass of whiskey in greeting.

"Have you seen my friend?" Kurt asked.

"He left absurdly early," the innkeeper said, taking another sip of the glass.

"He _left_?" Kurt asked, a somewhat incredulous grin on his face.

"He told me, he's gone to see Rachel. Because he's sorry, but he's found his true love, and he wants to spend the rest of his life with... her."

"_What_?" the bottom dropped out of Kurt's stomach. His head reeled. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," the innkeeper said, and Kurt's life fell apart.

xxxxx

The walk was short for Blaine. Too short. He found himself clearing the woods just as the first rays of sunlight were bursting over the horizon.

xxxxx

Kurt left the inn in a daze. His boot was still untied. He couldn't be bothered to stoop down and untie it.

_Blaine didn't love him_.

_Blaine loved Rachel_.

So what was last night? A mistake?

He blinked away tears furiously.

xxxxx

Michael was setting up shop for the day, carrying things from the caravan to the stall set up outside. The witch was still asleep inside—_she_ didn't have to wake at the crack of dawn to set up. Why would she, when she could have her servant do it for her?

A tall, beautiful boy passed him, his eyes vacant.

Mike _recognized _him.

A night ago, he'd found out he had a son. The boy with the dark, curly hair had been wearing the flower he'd given Tina so long ago, and the other one—the _star—_had said that it had been a gift from the father he'd never met. It didn't take much to put two and two together.

The boy—Blaine, the star had called him—was his son.

"_Wait!"_ He called after the star, but the star didn't turn. He continued to walk slowly, the blank, heart-wrenchingly _broken_ look in his eyes.

He tried to chase the boy, to grab his arm, but the tug on his ankle reminded him—he was a slave. He would be trapped by this _god-forsaken_ enchanted for the rest of forever.

xxxxx

Blaine stopped.

It was strange, when he thought about it. He'd expected so much to have changed about Wall—after all, it felt as if he'd been gone for years, rather than weeks. He'd expected something different, but here was Rachel's house—quaint, ivy-draped, sunny—and it was the same as it had always been.

It was _he_ who had changed, he realized.

He bent to wrap his hand around a stone, and twisted his shoulder back to throw it at the window—then changed his mind.

The stone fell to the ground as he made his way to the front door, and knocked once.

xxxxx

When Mike checked the window of the caravan, the witch was still slumbering, a lump of blankets and blond hair on the bed. He closed the door ever-so-gently, and snuck the pin through the lock.

He took the reigns in hand.

xxxxx

He was unsurprised when Rachel answered the door, her hair flowing down around her shoulders, clad in a white nightgown.

"Happy birthday," he said, inclining his head.

Rachel's face registered nothing but shock. "Blaine."

It was strange, how he could have possibly thought that he was ever in love with her. Fond of her, still—yes. Despite her shortcomings (and there were many), he still enjoyed spending his time with her.

But after experiencing Kurt—being with Kurt, in every single way—he couldn't fathom feeling anything towards anyone else, much less her. He hadn't known what _love_ meant until he'd met Kurt.

"What happened to you?" she asked, taking a step forward. He supposed he did look a fair bit _different _than he had when he'd left Wall two weeks previously.

"I found the star," he offered with a slight smile.

"I can't believe you did it," Rachel said, blinking. "I mean, I can, you were always the determined sort, but—where's my star? Can I see it? Is it beautiful?"

"_Yes_," Blaine said, and he knew Rachel wouldn't be able to understand the fervor in his voice. He took the handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to Rachel.

"It's small," she said, surprised.

"Good things come in small packages," he said, which wasn't always true, but it sounded good to him.

"It's not the star that I want," Rachel said, taking another step forward.

His confusion must have shown on his face, because she smiled somewhat seductively before wrapping an arm around his neck. "You know what I want, Blaine."

"Yes, I do," Blaine said, and he dipped her back into what must have seemed to her like the perfect position for a fairytale kiss.

"And it's not me," Blaine whispered, before dropping her. Her eyes snapped open as she fell to the ground with a little 'oof'.

"No hard feelings," Blaine said, straightening up.

Something thudded to the ground a few feet away from them.

Jesse was standing there, a box on the ground beside his feet. He was staring at the two of them.

"Jesse!" Blaine said, happily, not bothering to question at all why he was so happy to see him. He'd changed a lot in the past two weeks.

"Anderson," Jesse said, drawing his thin sword. Two weeks ago, it would have intimidated Blaine. "You must have a death wish."

Blaine sighed, and drew his own sword. It was heavier, thicker than Jesse's.

Jesse's eyes widened.

"Ah," he said, and sheathed his own sword, looking slightly discouraged and more than a little upset. His eyes flickered to Rachel, seated on the ground, and his shoulders slumped.

"Jesse. Jesse, it's all right," Blaine said, lowering his sword. On the ground beside him, Rachel was unfolding the handkerchief, a perplexed look on her face. "She's all yours. You really are a perfect couple. The best of luck to you both."

"I'm confused," Rachel said, softly. "This is just—it's just stardust."

"What?" Blaine asked.

She threw the wadded-up handkerchief at him. He caught it, and opened it.

Sparkly gray and black powder sifted through his fingers.

"Kurt," he said, the handkerchief falling from his hands. "He can't cross the wall."

He ran.

xxxxx

Mike winced as he ran over another stall in his hurry to leave the market-town, but he couldn't do much else besides yell "_sorry!_" to the vendor, who shook an angry fist at him.

xxxxx

Karofsky could see the wall from the window of his carriage.

He was so close.

xxxxx

The horse wasn't as fast as Santana would've liked, but it was fast enough.

Because according to her runes, she was less than a mile away from the star.

xxxxx

The caravan protested loudly, tipping onto only two wheels, as it raced around another rocky corner. Mike winced, pressing all his weight to the airborne side until it slammed back to earth.

His safety was far less important than the star's.

xxxxx

Branches whipped his face, some drawing a sharp sting of blood. He kept going, even as his lungs burned and his legs ached.

He had to get to Kurt.

xxxxx

Kurt counted the steps as he walked. Fifteen steps to go. Then eleven. Then eight. Then six. Then three-

"_Stop_!" Mike called out, grabbing his arm. "Stop. If you go through there, you'll die."

Kurt looked torn between confusion and shaking this strange man off his arm. "What?"

The back door of the caravan burst open. Mike ignored it. "If you set foot on human soil, you'll turn to rock."

He was abruptly yanked off his feet, dragged along the ground by the chain wrapped around his ankle.

"_Where have you taken me, you miserable little elf_?" the witch growled. Kurt could only watch, his mouth hanging open in horror, as the man who had just saved him was tugged backwards across the rocky soil.

A carriage screeched to a halt beside them.

The door swung open.

"Planning to enter Wall, were you?" Karofsky asked, and Kurt's eyes widened in horror. "If death is what you really want, I'd be more than happy to help with that."

"Are you talking to me?" Ditchwater Sue sneered.

"Oh, it's you," Karofsky said, his lip curling. "Small world. Anyhow, no, I wasn't. I was talking to the star."

"What star?" Sue asked, then glanced to the boy she had gripped by the arm. "My slave-boy's no star. Any fool can see that. If he was, I would've had his measly little heart out ages ago. Trust me."

"Trust you?" Karofsky laughed, at last wrenching his eyes away from Kurt. "Not a mistake I'd be likely to make again." He tilted his head, smiling. "What's it to be, Ditchwater Sue? Heads or tails?"

Sue had time for only a moment of confusion before the green flame engulfed her.

She tried to fight, she did, and she fought valiantly for a short amount of time.

Kurt gasped in horror, and Mike hurried towards him, flinging out an arm to protect him from the witch's fire.

In the end, when the fire cleared, all that was left was a body. The head had burned clean away.

Kurt was still shaking, his head turned into Mike's shoulder, but Mike was examining the chain that was wrapped around his ankle, hoping, waiting-

It fell free with an almost inaudible clink.

Karofsky was laughing, a horrible noise that made all the hair on Kurt's arms stand on end. He wiped his eyes. "Okay. Time to go."

"He's not going anywhere," Mike said, one arm still thrown protectively over the star.

Karofsky turned, an exasperated expression on his face. "I think you'll find he is. It's all right, you can come too."

He flicked a finger, and a fine silvery chain wrapped itself around both their wrists.

Mike could almost _weep_ at the unfairness of it all. He'd only _just_ been freed from slavery, from that horrible woman. He'd been chained by the ankle for twenty-one very long years.

And now he was a slave once more.

"You can ride in the carriage, or be dragged behind it. Your choice," Karofsky said, an awful smile curling across his face.

"What an offer," Kurt said, wryly, his voice miraculously steady, and started for the carriage.

Mike held the door for him. It was the least he could do, now that he was about to get them both killed.

Kurt waited until the door was closed behind them to speak. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low. "I'm so sorry I've got you dragged into this. I don't even know who you _are_, and you tried to help me."

"My name is Michael," he said, quietly. "Mike. And don't be sorry. I wanted to help you. Where is Blaine?"

Kurt's brow furrowed. "How do you-"

Mike shook his head, quickly. "No. What's your name?"

"Kurt."

"It's a pleasure, Kurt," Mike said.

"I wish I could agree with you on that," Kurt said, and the carriage surged forward as Karofsky cracked his whip.

xxxxx

Blaine cleared the trees, his eyes already frantically sweeping along the wall for some sign that Kurt was alright.

A very familiaryellow caravan stood on the other side of the wall, a patient, weary-looking horse still tethered to it.

"Go ahead," said the guard, swaying as she made her way away from the wall. "Be my guest. All these years I've stopped you people from going out, when what I should've been worrying about was the people from the other side."

"Okay, all right, just tell me what happened," Blaine said, desperately, his hands clinging to her arms.

"What happened?" she hiccuped. "Oh, where to start!"

He could only listen for a moment. As soon as the news of the warlock taking Kurt and the other man—whoever he was—with him in his caravan crossed the guards lips, Blaine had already taken off running again.

He swung around the corner of the caravan, hasty eyes darting around the inside. It was a wreck, broken objects and heaps of cloth everywhere, so it took a moment for his eyes to land upon what he was searching for.

His fingers seized around the tiny glass flower.

He took the horse.

xxxxx

There was nobody anywhere near the wall when Santana stopped there. She was momentarily confused until she saw the caravan, sitting innocuously just a few feet shy from the opening in the wall.

She tossed her runes.

Mouth set, she galloped on.

xxxxx

Both of them were led into a castle—old, spindly, diseased-looking. Mike kept his arm folded around Kurt's shoulder, protectively, even though it made the chain wrapped around his wrist tug painfully.

He wasn't about to let Kurt go.

"The star!" one of the warlocks said, the sun shining out of his ugly face. "And—who else?"

"A slave for us," Karofsky said. "It'll be nice for us to have someone to mop up when we've finished with our little guest." He grinned, yellow-toothed, at the two men.

"Good work, brother," said the darker of the other two warlocks, rubbing his hands together. "Just in time, I see. You look awful!"

All three began to laugh, and Mike felt Kurt's face turn into his neck. He winced, covering his own ears.

"Now, now, none of that," said one of the other warlocks, seizing his arm and cutting the chain that bound the two of them together. "Make yourself useful, _slave-boy_."

Karofsky turned to Kurt, tucking one finger under his chin and lifting his face.

"Now," he said, smiling gently at the star. "Why don't we get started?"


	10. Chapter Nine

**A/N: I do try to alter the story when I can, but for the most part I stick to the original storyline because it _fits_ so well. I do try to add character thoughts and motivations that aren't present or obvious in the movie, but other than that... keeping in a lot of the original lines makes sense in a lot of cases. I apologize if you find it boring because it's too close to the movie, but I did do it that way intentionally.**

**Other than that, I appreciate everyone's feedback so very much and I have to thank you again for being so positive about this story. It does mean a lot to me.**

Kurt was being _tied_ to a _table_, Blaine realized with a sickening twist in his stomach. He watched through the window as the three wretched, decrepit warlocks (and the one youthful one) cackled to themselves and each other, checking the straps that held him down.

Blaine's fingers twitched. There was pretty much absolutely _no_ way he could _possibly_ rescue Kurt and have either of them (let alone both) come out of there alive, but he knew he had to try. He'd die trying. He took a long, slow breath, keeping his eyes on Kurt's perfect profile, and tried to think of a plan of action.

Something thin, cold, and sharp pressed to his throat. A dagger. Very slowly, Blaine turned his head to meet the eyes of a very fierce dark-haired woman.

"Who are you?" she growled. "What _business_ do you have here?"

He smiled at her with what Kurt somewhat disdainfully referred to as his 'disarmingly charming smile'.

She appeared disarmed enough by it.

"Santana?" he said. She matched Quinn's description of her dark, hardened sister, after all. "I knew your sister. Quinn."

"Unless you want to share the same fate as whatever happened to her, I suggest you answer my question," she said coldly, digging her knife in further until it was on the verge of drawing blood. "What are you _doing_ here?"

"I might ask you the same question," Blaine said cooly, the tip of his knife pressed to her stomach.

She looked startled, like she hadn't expected someone like _Blaine_ to possess the stealth to sneak his weapon upon her like that, but pocketed her knife. "Ah," she said. "It seems we are at an impasse."

Blaine turned to look back through the window, this time with Santana at his side. He felt a strange sense of camaraderie towards her—which was ridiculous, because she had wanted to kill him, and he was certain she was only doing this because she wanted to cut out Kurt's heart and _eat_ it, but he thought maybe if she just got the chance to _meet_ Kurt, to _talk_ to him-

Well, maybe if Kurt had Santana looking out for him, he'd be okay even if Blaine died.

"There are four of them," Santana said, and the two of them slumped down under the window. "Do you have any ideas?"

"I was hoping you might."

"Follow my lead," Santana said, then gave him a once-over. "And try not to do anything too stupid."

"Noted," Blaine said, trying not to feel too wounded by her (somewhat accurate) assumption. "Wait-" he caught her arm. "How do I know you can be trusted?"

"You don't," Santana said, her mouth tilting in a smirk. "Why, do you have a choice?"

"No," Blaine said, letting her arm go.

"Well, then."

Santana burst through the doors with a yell, brandishing her sword. Her show of bravery was inspiring, even if it was just that—a show. Blaine could see her hand shaking on the sword she held.

She grabbed the first warlock—the closest one, the youthful one—and threw him down to the nearby bed, holding her sword high to plunge into his heart, but something stilled her hand. "_Michael?" _she gasped.

"Santana!" the man returned, his voice equally as shocked.

Blaine didn't have time to wonder about _this_ new development as the third warlock—the dark-skinned one—launched a stream of fire at Santana that _just_ barely missed her. He ducked behind a large pillar by the door, and was followed by the thin man Santana had just attempted to murder before being distracted.

He swung his sword on the man, who stopped him with frantic hands and a whisper of, "Blaine! _Blaine_!"

He froze, his sword halting in its tracks. _How does he know my name_?

"Blaine—I'm your father. I'm your father, Blaine."

Blaine didn't have time to process _that_ lovely piece of news, that little tidbit of information, before Santana was flinging her sword across the room, neatly spearing the attacking warlock through the chest.

The first warlock let out a scream that sounded like _Azimio!_ and let his rage-filled gaze fall upon Santana.

Santana didn't seem very put out by it. She merely arched her eyebrows, smiling in a way that Blaine could only describe as _seductive_ at the remaining two warlocks. She lifted her hand, and crooked one finger in a come-hither sort of gesture.

"You must have some idea of their weaknesses," Blaine said, desperately, his hand resting on his father's sleeve. "You've been held captive by them all these years, after all."

"I haven't," Mike returned, quietly, keeping his anxious eyes fixed on Santana—who had to be his _sister_, Blaine realized. "I was with another witch—Ditchwater Sue. The same one who turned you into a bird and took you to the wall. I was transfigured by her into a canary for easier travel. These warlocks took me when they took the star."

"Kurt," Blaine said, quietly. "His name is Kurt."

"I know," Mike said. "I tried to stop them from taking him-"

They were interrupted by a loud crack—Santana crumpled to the floor, a giant clay pot lay in shards around her.

"Is she dead, or just unconscious?" Blaine asked, throwing out an arm to keep Mike from rushing forward to help her.

"Unconscious, I think," Mike said. "How can we take on the other two?"

"Can you handle a sword?" Blaine asked.

Mike shook his head. "I was just learning when I was taken captive by Ditchwater Sue. I doubt I could remember well enough to handle warlock."

"Get outside, then," Blaine said, firmly. "If I die fighting, I'll need you to take care of Kurt."

"Be the man that I know you are," Mike said, simply, squeezing his son's hand.

Karofsky turned back to the star lying on the table, gliding his knife smoothly across a stone, sharpening slowly, almost tenderly. He had all the time he wanted. There would be no more interruptions.

The star was lovely, actually. The last time he'd seen him he'd been wet, injured, bedraggled. Now he was healthy, but there was some sort of broken quality about him there hadn't been before. He wasn't _happy—_and nothing they could do would fix that, not when the star knew that he was going to die. Ah well. As he'd said before, the golden heart of a happy star was much better than the heart of a scared, defeated one, but he'd take what he could get.

He still couldn't believe how truly _beautiful_ this star was. The last three stars they'd... encountered had been female. He'd started to believe there was no such thing as a male star. But now he was here, undeniably male and undeniably beautiful, in an unreachable, otherworldly sort of way.

He ran his knife across the stone once more.

Blaine took a deep breath, and stepped from behind the animal cages.

Both warlocks turned sharply, and Kurt followed their lead, struggling to force his head to the side.

As soon as he caught sight of Blaine, he lit in a glow so bright it hurt to look at. "_Blaine_," he gasped, his voice wrapped around the name like a caress.

"Get him," Karofsky instructed, and Strando hurried to do so.

Karofsky leaned over, examining the star. He was still glowing, yes, but it had faded in his worry over the boy standing in the center of the room, clutching a sword. Blaine, the star had said. He was in _love_ with the boy. That's what had been wrong before. He'd had a _broken heart_.

Strando leapt from the balcony nimbly to land before Blaine, advancing slowly with a sneer on his face.

Blaine shot a glance at the animal cages beside him, then without a second thought, swung his sword to shatter the lock to the wolverine cage, then the ferret cage immediately after.

They flooded from the cages, straight for their long-abusive captor.

What remained of the warlock after the much-abused animals were through with him wasn't pretty.

One warlock left.

This might actually be possible.

He wanted to look at Kurt, to make sure that he was okay, but he knew it could mean his death if he took his eyes off of the last warlock.

Behind him, he heard Santana stir.

"So what's it to be, Prince Charming?" Karofsky sneered, reaching the bottom of the stairs. On the balcony above, Kurt strained against the leather bindings that held him to the stone table. "Frog, or tadpole?"

Before Blaine could do much of anything, Karofsky pointed his finger at him, a jet of what looked like green flame streaming from it, right at Blaine.

Uselessly, he threw his arms over his head—and nothing happened. The green fire parted around him, curling and licking at what seemed to be an invisible barrier that surrounded Blaine.

For a moment, he was only filled with confusion.

Then Blaine reached into the lapel of his coat and withdrew a small glass flower, which he then twirled around his fingers.

Karofsky lowered his hand, and almost smiled.

Blaine never saw the vase coming.

It was huge—nearly as tall as he was—and made of clay, and it shattered around him, knocking him to the floor as Santana had fallen.

In the balcony above, Kurt arched against his restraints, crying out in pain, crying out Blaine's name.

Karofsky's eyes fixed on him.

From the folds of his robe, he lifted a small clay doll.

Blaine's eyes widened in horror.

The arm of the doll twisted in Karofsky's grasp.

To Blaine's surprise, there was no pain, no splintering of bone as his arm bent in an unnatural contortion. In fact, his arm didn't move at all. Nothing happened.

Behind him, there was the slow dragging noise of metal-against-stone.

He spun, a feeling of horror creeping through his stomach.

Santana was rising from the ground, rising unconsciousness blinking away from her eyes. She met Blaine's horrified gaze, and her eyes widened. "Blaine—I'm not-"

Her arm lifted, the sword clutched in her hand. He could see it shaking as she tried to resist, tried to throw off the curse.

"Blaine-"

"I'm going to try really hard not to hurt you," Blaine said, seriously, as he lifted his own sword. Her dark skin had turned ashen, her eyes unblinking. "But I need to get to Kurt."

Santana's rigid body quivered, then lunged at Blaine, sword thrusting at his chest. He parried quickly, and her face was an apology—no, more than that—as the warlock twisted the doll's arm and she was forced to cut at him again.

The fight was intense and if Kurt hadn't trained Blaine, there would be no way in the world that Blaine would even be able to come close to matching the warlock's skill. He twisted Santana's body in unnatural contortions, moving the sword in ways that seemed impossible.

Blaine backed against a wall as Santana advanced upon him, her eyes as wide and panicked as his were.

There were three ropes on the wall beside him. He wrapped his fingers around the nearest one, and cut it just below his hand.

Across the room, a chandelier crashed to the floor.

Both he and Santana winced, and she continued to advance upon him.

He cut the second rope.

Another chandelier, this time over the fountain.

Santana drew closer, the horror growing on her face.

He cut the third rope, and was lifted into the air as the chandelier above their heads fell.

Karofsky dropped the voodoo doll, and Santana threw herself out of the way as the crystal shattered into a million fragmented pieces on the marble floor. Her head cracked against the floor.

Blaine swung up into the air on the rope, spinning and flailing, and fell on top of the warlock, sending them both to the ground.

He was thrown backwards as Karofsky pushed himself up, growling, his knife clutched in his large, decrepit hand.

He swung.

Fighting the real Karofsky was ten times more difficult than fighting Karofsky through Santana. His reflexes were faster, his rage more palpable when it was the two of them, and it was only the presence of Kurt, the sound of Kurt struggling behind Blaine that kept Blaine going, kept him fighting.

He swung, and Karofsky flicked his wrist, and the knife was knocked from Blaine's hand, skittering to the floor far below, underneath the balcony they stood on.

He was backed against Kurt's table, nowhere to go, nowhere to run, as Karofsky's knife pressed to his throat. His heart thrummed like a wild animal in his chest, frightened and skittish and angry all at once.

Karofsky's hand lifted, a look of rage on his face as his eyes flickered between the dead bodies of his brothers.

He swung, and Blaine's eyes squeezed shut.

He heard the impact, and Kurt's cry, and waited for the pain—but it never came.

He opened his eyes.

The strap that held Kurt to the table slid to the ground, sliced neatly in half.

The knife slipped from Karofsky's limp hand, clattering to the floor.

Blaine stared at him.

"_Youth_," Karofsky whispered, his eyes fixed on Kurt, his face full of anguish. "_Beauty_. It means nothing. _My brothers are dead_."

He bent at the waist, his face crumpling in pain.

"Go," he groaned, palms pushing into his eyes.

Blaine fumbled for Kurt's hand, and they locked eyes. Kurt's were shining, bright and blue, and Blaine's heart fluttered hopefully.

_"Go!_"

He pulled Kurt from the table, the buckles slipping away from his body, and tucked an arm around his waist as they hurried down the stairs. Blaine nearly tripped several times, his eyes fixed on Kurt, checking for injuries, unable to believe that they were just going to _leave_, they were going to go and live their happily ever after and nothing could ever hurt them again.

It was too good to be true.

It _was_ too good to be true.

The doors slammed shut of their own accord.

Kurt stumbled into Blaine as they fell into a stop, surprise halting their footsteps.

Karofsky laughed, a bone-chilling noise.

The walls vibrated, the only remaining chandelier shuddering, its glass creating a a disturbingly beautiful jangling.

The glass in the windows shattered.

Kurt cried out, throwing his arm over Blaine to pull them both to the ground, shielding their heads and necks from the jagged bits raining to the ground.

Karofsky was still laughing, descending the staircase slowly, like someone who had all the time in the world. Kurt was standing, dragging Blaine up with him, his eyes fixed on the warlock, his expression terrified and something else.

"I think I should probably thank you, boy," he said, his eyes fixed on Blaine, his yellow teeth sharp and wolf-like. "What use was his heart to me when it was broken? And you got rid of my brothers... now I can have it all for myself."

Kurt took Blaine by the shoulders, and breathed, "hold me tight, and close your eyes."

"Why?" Blaine asked, because Karofsky was halfway down the staircase, and if they were going to die he wanted the last thing he saw to be Kurt.

"What do stars do?" Kurt asked, a small laugh in his voice, before he pulled Blaine into a fierce embrace.

He turned to look at Karofsky over Blaine's shoulder, a smile bright on his face. "_Shine_," he whispered.

The glow started soft—how it had been when he'd first started to feel differently around Blaine, and he let himself recall the way his stomach had flipped when he and Blaine had brushed hands, the way his heart beat faster when Blaine looked at him.

His heart twisted, his glow brightened as he was flooded with images, coming faster and faster—the way Blaine's face had looked when he'd heard about Kurt's mother, the way Blaine had looked under the sun while they fenced, slick with sweat and tanned and muscled in a way that made Kurt's mouth go dry. The way Blaine's eyes softened when he smiled at Kurt. The way hands curved around Kurt when they danced. The childlike joy on his face when he'd caught his first bolt of lightening. The expression of wonder when Kurt had told him that what he was feeling _wasn't_ wrong. The tenderness of his voice when he finally told Kurt how he felt about him. The way his hands shook when he touched Kurt, ever-so-softly, during their first kiss.

He could see his shine filling the room, flooding every corner with light and with the same joy and happiness that was rushing through Kurt as he remembered what it was like to be with Blaine, in every way, to hear his name falling from Blaine's lips like a benediction, to lie with Blaine afterwards and finally feel like he was _home_, like he was loved and cherished the way he'd always wanted to be.

He could hear the warlock's scream, could see through the white-hot brightness as he shattered apart, because his eyes couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take everything that Kurt was finally letting show, everything Kurt hadn't even _known_ he was holding in.

Finally, he let himself remember how it had _felt_ to have Blaine step forward, a sword in hand, when Kurt had thought that he had nothing left, nothing to be happy about, nothing to live for, with determination and recklessness clear on his face.

He shone as bright as the sun, brighter.

He had to reel it all back in to fade his glow, pull the feelings tightly against his chest and wrap them back in because if he let them out again, he might kill _himself_ with the intensity of his own emotions.

Blaine's hands cupped his face as he pulled away from Kurt, his eyes flickering only momentarily to the ashy remains of the warlock that littered the stairs, before fixing back on Kurt, wonder in his face. "Why didn't you do that earlier?"

"I couldn't have done that without you," Kurt breathed, his hands running up and down Blaine's waist; he couldn't stop touching him. "No star can shine with a broken heart. I thought I'd lost you. But you came back." His lip trembled even as his mouth split into a wide, crooked grin.

"Of course I did," Blaine said, and his thumbs swept wide and broad over Kurt's cheekbones. "I love you."

It made his breath catch and his heart leap, the way Kurt's shine nearly burst out of him. He pulled Kurt's face to his, pressing their lips together in a maddeningly short kiss.

Santana stirred on the ground, and Blaine turned instantly, eyes widening in distress as the girl brought her hand to the back of her hand and brought it away, stained red.

Mike was hefting one of the doors open, worry clear on his face.

Kurt and Blaine rushed to help Santana, reaching out with hands to sit her up, Blaine tearing a long strip of fabric from his shirt to wrap around her head, staunching the bleeding.

As Kurt leaned forward to knot the fabric around her forehead, the necklace he wore swung forward, and the chain snapped.

To Kurt, to Mike, to Santana, it seemed to happen in slow motion. The necklace fell from Kurt's neck, Blaine lunged, and with newly developed reflexes—caught the stone.

In the palm of his hand, it turned a deep blood-red.

"Blaine-" Kurt said, his voice choked-off in surprise.

"The youngest surviving heir of the Stormhold bloodline," Mike said, softly, and Santana's eyes dropped away, her head bowing in disappointment. "It's you, Blaine."


	11. Chapter Ten, the Epilogue

"You're okay." Blaine knew he was, had known this for at least three hours—since they'd left the warlock's castle—but he couldn't stop _touching_ Kurt, to make sure it was real, to make sure Kurt wasn't hurt.

"I'm fine," Kurt laughed, but his own hands came up to curl around Blaine's. "You're the new King of Stormhold," he said, softly.

Blaine rested his head against Kurt's neck. "So are you."

He felt Kurt stiffen in surprise, and immediately backtracked, lifting his head from Kurt's shoulder. "That's not what—Kurt. Nobody is forcing you to marry me."

"I know," Kurt said, softly.

Blaine lifted Kurt's palm to his mouth. "I am crazy about you," he whispered, pressing his lips to the tender skin between thumb and pointer finger. "And nothing in the entire _world_ would make me happier than if I could call you my husband."

Kurt wanted it, too. Blaine could tell by the way his shine nearly blinded everyone in the carriage.

"You're sure that's what you want?" Kurt whispered, eyes locked on Blaine.

"You are all I will _ever_ want," Blaine said, firmly, and leaned in to kiss Kurt, his hands cupped around the other man's face.

It was slow, and sweet, and chaste, taking into consideration that Blaine's father was sitting only a foot away.

"It figures that you would get the crown," Santana spat, crossing her arms, moodily. She huffed impatiently as the caravan lurched forward. "You didn't even _want_ it. You weren't even _after_ it."

Blaine pulled away from Kurt, keeping one hand resting tenderly on his cheek, and turned to Santana with a benign smile.

"Still," Santana said, grudgingly, "I do admit you would make a good king."

"Thank you, Princess," Blaine said, and Santana snorted, because maybe this boy had potential, after all.

She tapped the window. "You can let me out here."

Mike looked slightly surprised, but stopped the carriage anyway.

She hopped out, dusting off her riding cloak.

Blaine leaned forward. "Where are you going?"

"Off to chase me a pirate," she said, and saluted them.

xxxxx

They offered to share a room with Mike. Honestly, they did.

Mike raised an eyebrow at them when they did so, and both of them blushed, and no more was said.

Kurt climbed into bed first, yawning in content and snuggling back into his covers. "I do have terrible misfortune, don't I?"

Blaine leaned against the closed door, just _looking_.

Kurt was glowing softly, his face and hands alight over the collar and cuffs of his shirt. His smile matched his shine—soft, warm, bright, and so, _so_ in love.

"You are so beautiful," Blaine breathed, and Kurt's glow brightened even as he blushed and ducked his head.

"Don't hide from me, please," Blaine whispered, crawling into bed after him and slipping his hand under Kurt's chin. "I love seeing you like this—so _happy_."

"You make me like this," Kurt said, quietly. He was silent for a moment, before he tipped his head to the side. "Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?" Blaine asked. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes refused to move from Kurt's lips.

"What you said when we were in the caravan. That you wanted to marry me."

"_Kurt_," Blaine said, giving in to temptation and leaning forward to kiss him, slipping one arm around Kurt's waist to tug him closer. "Of _course_ I did. I want to marry you as soon as I can. I'd do it now, if I could."

"I don't think there's any need for that," Kurt said, and his eyes weren't straying far from Blaine's lips, either. "I believe you."

"Let me convince you anyway," Blaine said, tipping Kurt back against the pillow. "Let me take care of you tonight?"

Kurt hesitated.

Blaine took his hand. "I thought I'd lost you forever," he said, softly, his eyes catching on Kurt. "When I heard that you had been taken, I thought it was the end. Some part of me still doesn't believe that you're here with me, that you're all right." He took a deep breath, slipped his hands up Kurt's arms to his shoulders. "I need to prove to myself it's real, that you're here and safe and okay. I need to know that you're with me."

Kurt opened his mouth, but Blaine wasn't finished.

"And I know what you must have thought," he said, gently, his eyes roaming across Kurt's face. "When you woke and I was gone. My father told me—he said you looked heartbroken, like you had lost everything, like you were dead already. I-" he faltered. "I don't know what that innkeeper told you, Kurt, but I can only assume that the fact that he was half asleep when I relayed to him my message for you may have changed the actual content of the message."

Kurt half-shrugged, turning his eyes away from Blaine.

"Let me be really clear about this," Blaine said, quietly. "_You_ are my true love, Kurt. That is who I meant in that message. Not Rachel. _You_. I went to see Rachel to tell her that, and to tell her that she never really wanted me."

Kurt looked up, the beginnings of a smile on his face.

"All I want is you, Kurt," Blaine whispered, his breath brushing light against Kurt's lips. "All I'll ever want is you. Let me show you that."

All of the air in Kurt's lungs left his throat in a short gasp. "Yes," he said, breathlessly.

"Take off your shirt," Blaine murmured, pressing his lips just below Kurt's jawbone, "and lie back. Let me."

Slowly, Kurt lay back. His glow was more subdued now that he had no idea what Blaine was about to do. His curiosity showed on his face as Blaine made no move to remove his trousers along with his shirt.

Instead, Blaine skimmed his palms over the surface of Kurt's flat stomach, leaning down to press soft, gentle kisses around Kurt's navel, feeling the way Kurt's stomach fluttered under his mouth.

"Are you ticklish?" he breathed, warm and hot over Kurt's stomach. Kurt squirmed.

"Nervous," he said, tipping his head back, and Blaine was momentarily distracted by the long, smooth column of Kurt's throat.

"Don't be," Blaine said, sliding his hand over to slip down Kurt's warm side. "I'm going to show you how much I love you, Kurt. I'm going to show you there is nothing you need be worried _about_, not when you look like this."

"Like-" Kurt hesitated. "Like what, exactly?"

Blaine's hand snapped back. "You don't—oh, _Kurt_-"

"Don't," Kurt said, quietly, turning his face away.

"Kurt, please tell me what you mean," Blaine said, stroking his thumbs over Kurt's ribs.

"I know what you find appealing about me," Kurt said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "You like my wit and the fact that I can beat you in a fight—don't argue, you know it's true—and you like dancing with me and you very much like the fact that I'm taller than you." He shrugged, a stilted motion against the bedcovers. "I just don't see _looks_ factoring in there anywhere."

Blaine sighed, resting his head against Kurt's stomach, pressing his cheek to the warm, soft skin there. "You're right, I do _love_ all those things about you, Kurt, and so many more that you'd probably be surprised by." He reached up to lace his fingers through Kurt's. "But please believe me when I say that I really, _really _love how you look."

Kurt let out a long, slow breath. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I want to believe you, Blaine, but I-"

Blaine leaned up, letting gravity take his lips to Kurt's. They moved softly together, slowly. "Let me show you," Blaine repeated, pulling back.

Kurt could only nod, the words stolen from his throat.

Blaine let his other hand slip into Kurt's, before spreading Kurt's arms apart and pressing both of the other man's hands into the mattress. "Leave them there," he murmured, reaching across to place a gentle kiss on each of Kurt's palms. "Just like that."

Kurt let out a shaky breath.

Blaine began on his right—sliding his lips down each of Kurt's fingers, eyelashes trailing down Kurt's skin as if to remind him of what Blaine's lips had felt like, moments before. He peppered kisses down Kurt's forearm, circling his fingers around Kurt's wrist to hold him in place, even though Kurt had no intention of moving.

Blaine's tongue drew light circles on Kurt's bicep, and he pulled back slightly to gaze at them admiringly, running flat-handed palms over the muscles.

"Have I told you how much I like these?" he asked, his gaze unmoving. "I could never concentrate when you were showing me a new technique for fencing because all I could think about was how _strong_ you must be, with biceps like that, and then I'd start thinking about how you could lift me up, and then my thoughts would become decidedly less pure and-" he cut himself off, a light blush coloring his cheeks.

Kurt's lips were parted, eyes gazing at Blaine in wonder.

Blaine laughed a little self-consciously, then leaned forward once more to touch his lips to Kurt's shoulder. "Turn over," he murmured.

Shivering, Kurt did so, turning his head to the side and cracking one eye open to look at Blaine.

"_These_," Blaine breathed, his hands hot and heavy on Kurt's shoulders, sliding down to stroke across his back. "_God_, Kurt, your shoulders... I can't see you with a shirt off without fixating on your back. You have the most beautiful shoulders of any man I've _ever_ seen."

Kurt's skin, already alight with a soft glow, shone just _that much_ brighter.

Blaine sighed against his back, lips pressing reverent along his skin. "I could touch you for _hours_, Kurt, look at you just like this, and I would never become tired or bored."

"I-" Kurt seemed at a loss for words.

Blaine's hands slipped down to his trousers, his thumbs tucking under the waistband. "I'm going to take these off. Okay?"

"Please," Kurt murmured, and Blaine's heart stuttered even as he pushed the trousers down Kurt's legs, Kurt's hips lifting from the bed to assist him.

He was naked then, glowing everywhere, and for a minute Blaine _couldn't breathe_ because there was absolutely no way that this amazing, perfect being belonged to _him_.

"You have amazing legs," Blaine whispered against the backs of Kurt's knees, dropping kisses on his calves.

"_Oh_," Kurt said, and let out a shuddering sigh.

"Sensitive?" Blaine murmured, and Kurt said nothing, just squirmed further into the bedcovers.

He was quiet for some time, pressing lazy kisses down Kurt's legs and running his hands gently up and down his thighs, stroking his fingertips through the hair sprinkled across Kurt's calves and shins and thighs.

He ran his hands up and over Kurt's backside, not missing the way Kurt shivered at the touch, and planted a soft kiss against the skin there. "Turn back over, please?"

For a moment, Kurt didn't move. Then, slowly, he turned over, and Blaine sucked in an aching breath because he was _already really hard_.

He stroked one hand over Kurt tentatively, and Kurt gasped, turning his face to muffle his noise with the pillow.

"You look stunning," Blaine whispered, spreading his palms across Kurt's broad chest. "You're beautiful, and I love you."

"I love you too."

Blaine smiled a half-smile, only one corner of his mouth tilting up. "I know. This is about _you_."

He hesitated, then brought himself up on his palms to press his face into the curve of Kurt's neck.

Something changed in the way he was touching Kurt. His hands became more insistent on Kurt's chest, his mouth changed from kissing softly at Kurt's throat to biting, sucking kisses that would leave clear marks. Kurt's hands tensed, spasmed, then flew up from the bed to grasp Blaine's biceps.

Blaine pushed them back, more forcefully than he had before, and nipped at Kurt's collarbone, earning a sharp gasp.

"No," he said, reprovingly. "Keep your hands there. I told you that."

"B—Blaine-" Kurt gasped, and Blaine smiled wickedly, moving his face down to lick and suck and bite at Kurt's chest, closing his fingers around Kurt's wrists and pressing them into the bed in warning.

His tongue flicked at Kurt's nipple, and Kurt arched off the bed, a short, breathless curse fighting its way out of his lips.

"You _taste_ amazing, too," Blaine whispered, tongue tracing the contours of Kurt's stomach as his hands moved from Kurt's arms to his chest, fingers plucking at one of his nipples, teasing it until Kurt was breathless and moaning beneath him.

"What do you want me to do?" Blaine asked, and as he spoke he curled his hand around Kurt again. Kurt's mouth fell open, breath coming in short gasps.

"Put your mouth on me, Blaine, _please_," Kurt stammered, and Blaine wasn't cruel enough to tease Kurt and ask him _where_, exactly, Kurt wanted his mouth to be.

He ghosted one final kiss just under Kurt's navel, then sunk his mouth around the other man.

A wave of satisfaction hit him when Kurt arched into the touch, a choked-off moan tearing from his throat. He laced his fingers through Kurt's, and used the other hand to hold him steady as he worked him over with his tongue, slowly, thoroughly.

Kurt squeezed his eyes closed, a soft whimper falling from his lips.

Blaine felt _hungry_ in a way he never had before, around anyone. He wanted more of that, more of all of it, of Kurt's gasps and moans and the way his voice stuttered when Blaine's tongue flicked against him.

He took Kurt, every bit of him, stroking his fingers light over Kurt's wrist, a reminder of everything. He let his fingers trace Kurt's ribs and curve around his stomach.

He flicked his eyes up to meet Kurt's.

Kurt let go, arching and crying Blaine's name, and Blaine, surprising himself, fell with him.

When he returned, his palm was cupped around Kurt's cheek, his head resting against Kurt's chest.

"I'm so happy I found you," he murmured.

xxxxx

Somehow, Santana wasn't surprised in the least when she found Quinn there, too.

She was sitting beside the Captain, murmuring quietly with him, one hand on his knee, when Santana stepped onto the ship for the second time in her life.

Sam raised his eyebrows at her. "We thought you would have the stone by now."

Santana attempted to smile. "Is being queen really so important?"

"To you, it was," Quinn said, her eyes half-hard.

"There are other things that mean more," Santana said, and she had eyes only for Brittany.

xxxxx

The throne was stiff and uncomfortable, and in his royal robes, Blaine still felt like an imposter. Like a child playing dress-up.

The thousands of citizens who stood in the square below, gazing up at him in adoration, seemed to believe otherwise.

Beside him, Kurt squeezed his hand. "Breathe, Blaine," he murmured, and Blaine sucked in a breath. Without Kurt beside him, he never would have made it through the last few weeks of hastily thrown-together training.

Captain Puckerman grinned at them from the front row, and Quinn, smiling sweetly, blew a dainty kiss in Blaine's direction. He pressed a quick hand to his heart and held back his smile, remembering his training in stoicism. Santana sat beside them, holding Brittany's hand. Mercedes and the blond prince—Sam—were just behind them, eyes fixed only on each other.

Rachel was in the audience, too, with Jesse, and she offered him a small smile when she met his eyes. He was surprised to find that she seemed to have no hard feelings toward him—she had married Jesse after all, and the two had stayed in contact despite their differences in living situations.

Words were said as the Bishop lifted the crown from the cushion it rested on, but Blaine's heart beat so loudly in his ears that he couldn't understand a single syllable. It wasn't until a heavy weight settled on his head that he realized—_he was King_ _of Stormhold_.

_King_.

The thought didn't have much time to process before Mike was stepping forward, a long box clutched in his hands. "My gift to you," he said, handing it off to Kurt. "To you both," he said, his eyes flicking to Blaine.

Kurt lifted the lid, and his eyes closed as he laughed, before showing the contents to Blaine.

A Babylon candle.

xxxxx

They ruled for eighty years. But no man can live forever—except he who possesses the heart of a star. And Kurt had given his to Blaine completely.

When their children and grandchildren were grown, it was time to light the Babylon candle.

And they still live happily ever after.


End file.
